


The spaces between us

by opposablethumbs



Series: Spaces [2]
Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Bucky Barnes's Plums, Existing Relationship, M/M, Ross is an asshole, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug, Tony Stark Needs a Hug
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-31
Updated: 2017-10-11
Packaged: 2018-11-07 10:36:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 57,942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11057181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/opposablethumbs/pseuds/opposablethumbs
Summary: Steve and Tony are officially together, but not as often as either would like. Steve is running the training complex upstate and Tony is navigating the machinations and manipulations of Washington. As the space between them grows, they begin to feel the strain on their relationship. Guilt and grief push them further from each other, with the Accords dividing them like never before.Amongst all this, there’s Bucky. All he wants is some plums.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Following straight on from part one. New chapters post weekly!
> 
> Beta'd by the glorious glowcloud herself, [nursedarry](http://archiveofourown.org/users/NurseDarry/pseuds/NurseDarry).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve and Tony get a quiet day and a little space to themselves. At least until everyone else shows up.

“And former General Thaddeus Ross was sworn in today as the nation’s 69th Secretary of State...”

Steve, halfway to being halfway asleep, hears a tut and then the click-hum from the television set as Tony turns it off. The couch that they are both sat on dips slightly, suspiciously like someone has slid themselves from one end to the other. A familiar weight presses into Steve’s side, and the sunlight streaming through the rec room windows entices him to do absolutely nothing at all.

Instead, being the guy he is, he cracks open a single eye.

“Something wrong with your end of couch, Mr. Stark?” he asks.

Tony snorts. He reaches behind himself and finds Steve’s arm where it’s sprawled across the back of the seat. With a tug, he pulls it down onto his shoulders, keeping a playful yet insistent hold on Steve’s fingers.

Steve opens both eyes only to roll them, but a smile still tugs at his lips. “We’ve talked about this.”

“This doesn’t count as public,” Tony argues. “The only people with a pass to this wing already know we’re sleeping together.”

A faint flush prickles in Steve’s cheeks. He knows that Tony’s right, and it isn’t that he’s ashamed of what the two of them are to each other, but he does still get a little... shy about it. Ever since he donned the suit - even that first one made for the stage rather than combat - it’s felt like his life has been the property of somebody else. First the Army; then SHIELD; and latterly any wannabe newshound with a smartphone and an agenda. This with Tony, it’s private. And part of Steve likes it that way. 

But... Tony’s not that guy, and Steve knew it going in. Keeping their relationship out of the press is sensible, they both agree there. But once he’d started splitting his time more equally between the training facility and DC, Tony was never going to be satisfied being cooped up in Steve’s room. It took some wheedling, but in the end Steve agreed that the level 8 rec room was an adequate compromise; somewhere they could be together without it being a together type thing. And he thought, _it’s not like anyone ever goes there_. 

Or at least they _didn’t_. The first couple of nights, it was just him and Tony. Then Wanda surprised them both mid-canoodle by calling in for a drink. She kept her eyes trained warily on Tony all the while and didn’t stay long, but that was the start of it. A few days later, Natasha appeared; silently slipping into a chair and curling her legs up under herself. One night that week, she brought Sam and a copy of _The Wizard of Oz_ with her. When the games console showed up, labelled ‘Property of JR. DO NOT strip down for parts,’ it became necessary to have an extra couch brought up from level 3. Within a matter of weeks, that rarely-used rec room became a hub of Avenger activity. Even Vision, despite still looking a little perplexed at their various behaviours, seemed to enjoy being there. They _all_ seem to enjoy being there. Over the months since Ultron, Steve had been able to take this disparate group of individuals and turn them into a team. But Tony; only Tony had found a way to make them...

...make them a family.

Pride spirals through Steve’s chest, and he pulls Tony a fraction closer. He feels Tony’s laughter as a rumble, and the smaller man nestles into the loose embrace, slouching down to take advantage of the crook of Steve’s arm. On a whim, Steve presses a kiss to his temple.

“Oh God, get a room you two.”

Even Tony startles, although it’s almost entirely subsumed by Steve’s own surprise. Jerking his head round, Steve sees Natasha stood in the door, one hand to her hip and a wry half-smile on her lips.

Tony settles back, quick as ever to resume a collected attitude. “Last time I checked, this was a room, Romanoff. And one I own, in case you’ve forgotten.”

Natasha shrugs and enters the communal area, stopping to grab a glass of water on the way before settling into her now-customary chair.

She wafts a dismissive hand at them. “Like I really care. Go nuts.”

Tony wriggles, simultaneously getting comfy and pinning Steve in place. He tilts his head back to stare up into Steve’s eyes. “You hear that, honey? Widow says to go nuts.”

Steve’s gaze meets Tony’s, sees mirth dancing there. He feels muscles start to uncurl, a little of Tony’s devil-may-care demeanour seeping into him. “This is about as nuts as it gets, Romanoff,” he says.

Tony offers a long-suffering sigh. “It’s true. Steve doesn’t believe in sex before marriage. And just between us girls, a good man is worth waiting for...”

“I might almost believe you,” says Nat casually, “except that for all the money you spent on this place, you forgot to soundproof the bedrooms.”

Steve splutters, a protest and a yelp vying for space in his throat. Tony chuckles and puts his hand on Steve’s thigh, palm curling round to what very much counts as ‘inner’.

“Is it safe in here?” It’s Sam calling from the corridor.

“Yeah,” Natasha calls before Steve (or more likely Tony) can protest. “So long as you don’t mind watching Cap and Stark being all gross super-couple.”

“Romanoff,” Steve manages, trying to make it sound commanding. The look of flippant disregard she turns on him suggests he fails.

Sam saunters into the rec room. “Eugh, if I have to,” he grumbles. “But hands where I can see them or I’m putting in a claim for hazard pay.”

Rhodey is only a few paces behind. “You get paid?” he asks.

Sam tosses him a beer from the fridge. “Well, mostly just in free bed and breakfast,” he says. “And bullets,” he adds.

“Actually,” Tony says, sitting up straight, “I was thinking about you the other day.”

“Well, I’m flattered, man,” Sam drawls, coming to sit beside Rhodes. “But don’t you think you’ve got enough to keep you busy?”

Tony rolls his eyes, and Steve feels a flush once more creeping up the back of his neck. 

“Not like that, flyboy,” Tony scolds. “I was thinking how you need a little something, well, you know...”

“Know what?” Sam asks suspiciously.

“Well, something to make you as cool as the rest of us.”

Rhodey snorts into his beer.

“Hey, I’m the guy with wings, Stark. _Wings_. It doesn’t get much cooler than wings.”

“Well, it could get a _bit_ cooler,” Tony replies.

Sam lifts his chin, eyes narrowing. “Oh yeah. How?”

Tony fiddles with his watch for a second. Steve watches the way his fingers dance over the tiny interface, so deliberate and so dextrous. Steve’s breathing catches just slightly and the flash of a sly smile on Tony’s face suggests that it isn’t missed.

There’s a whirr from the hallway. It grows louder until a small object appears in the doorway, bobbing about three feet from the ground.

Sam’s face lights up like a kid on the best goddamn Christmas ever. “What is it?” he asks gleefully, “and more important, can I keep it?”

“It’s a Bio-Integrated Reconnaissance Device.” Tony says, sounding rather pleased with himself.

“A BIRD?” Natasha says with a smirk.

“Took me all week to come up with that acronym,” Tony replies proudly.

Sam’s eyes are wide and he’s back on his feet, hands hovering around the device as though looking for strings. “I shall call him Redwing, and he shall be mine, and he shall be my Redwing,” he says.

Nat scrunches up her nose. “Redwing?”

Sam doesn’t answer. But Steve, from one of those deep chats that happens the night before a mission, when there’s no way in hell you’re sleeping, knows what that name means. ‘Redwing’ was the call sign of Sam’s wingman in the Gulf.

“As for your other question,” Tony says, “No, you can’t keep it _yet_. This is the oh-point-one version. I need to install heat, IR and x-ray scanners, targeting assist software. Maybe some go-faster stripes.”

“Make ‘em red,” Sam says.

Tony snorts. “Is there another colour for go-faster stripes?”

Very slightly, Steve tightens his hold on Tony. It’s not a possessive a gesture. Honest. 

“Anybody know if we’re expecting Wanda and Vision tonight?” Natasha asks innocently.

Rhodey pulls his face. “Saw Viz heading towards Wanda’s room when I was on my way down here, so I’m guessing ‘no’.”

“Wanda and _Vision_?” Sam asks incredulously. “Is that... possible?” His brow furrows thoughtfully. “Hey, Stark. You had a hand in making purple-boy. Does he even have a..?”

Steve clears his throat. “Sam, that’s one of your team-mates you’re talking about.”

Sam tuts but goes back to fussing over his BIRD. 

The rest hunker in. Nat turns on the TV again, changing the channel from news to entertainment and settling onto some entirely implausible straight-to-video disaster movie. Considering their line of work, Steve has never quite understood the appeal, but Natasha seems to enjoy pulling holes in the so-called ‘plots’.

Steve manages to stay focussed through the opening act, which largely seems to involve a spunky young female scientist wearing a variety of tight blouses. But the details start to grow hazy and Steve’s eyelids droop until...

Until...

****

“Hey.”

Steve grumbles, body heavy with sleep.

“Hey, Captain Cushion.”

He blinks awake, swallowing away a dry throat. The corner of his mouth tickles in that very particular way it does when drool has dried on it. “Tony?” he mumbles.

“You’re vibrating,” Tony replies. 

The room has grown dark, lit only by the television. In its blue radiance, Steve can see that Wanda and Vision have in fact joined the collective. Sam and Natasha are cross-legged on the floor with a bowl of popcorn placed between them. Rhodey seems to have made the same decision as Steve and is snoring quietly at his end of the other couch. On their couch, Tony is lounged out, feet up on the seat and draped back against Steve’s side: the side of him that is currently numb save for a vague buzzing sensation coming from his trouser pocket.

Tony nudges him. “You going to get it?”

Steve wriggles himself out from under Tony, moving into the kitchen. He takes his phone from his pocket and looks at the screen. An unfamiliar number, as always, but right on schedule. A small smile creeps onto his face. Buck’s still out there, and whatever else he is, there’s still enough of the guy he was for him to stay true to his word. The phone vibrates a couple more times and then rings off.

Tony twists in his seat, peering over his shoulder at Steve. “Anything good?”

Steve shrugs casually as he puts away his phone. “Wrong number,” he says.

“Uh huh,” Tony says, getting to his feet and stretching. He scratches lazily at his stomach and then comes to join Steve in the kitchen. “I think it’s time for bed,” he says. In the low light, Steve sees his eyes glitter and that quirk on his lips is as infuriating as it inviting. 

“It’s not that late, is it?” Steve asks.

“Late enough,” Tony replies. He sneaks a hand onto the dip of Steve’s waist, fingers fluttering there like they had earlier over his watch.

Steve clears his throat, neck prickling. “Oh, well. Okay. Good night,” he says.

Tony’s smile broadens as he drops his head and shakes it. “Night, kids!” he calls as he heads out.

Steve shifts his weight from foot to foot, trying to decide whether to sit back down on the couch or do something else. The washing up, maybe, or a short run before he turns in himself. Then a piece of popcorn bounces off his head.

“Maybe go with him?” Natasha suggests.

An embarrassed flush heats Steve’s cheeks. “Oh, uh... yeah,” he says. ‘How is he not still a virgin?’ he hears Nat whisper as he leaves the room, followed by Sam’s mirth-filled response: ‘Have you seen his ass?’

“Thanks, man,” Steve mutters as he makes his way to the elevator.

****

Tony is in the bathroom brushing his teeth when Steve gets up to his suite. The thought hadn’t struck Steve that he’d be anywhere else but there, somewhere like his own suite, perhaps. While they’re usually far more subtle about it, it’s a rare night that they both sleep under the same roof but in separate beds. Maybe it’s too early to start to think of Steve’s suite as theirs but... maybe it isn’t, either.

He stops in the doorway to the bathroom, leaning on the frame and folding his arms. 

Tony looks up and catches his eyes in the mirror. “Honestly thought it would take you longer to catch on,” he admits.

“Romanoff threw in her two cents.” A fond smile tugs at Steve’s mouth. “That was a nice thing you did for Sam tonight,” he says.

Tony rinses out his mouth. “Yeah, well...” he says. His eyes dart away and the barest hint of pink shows on his cheeks.

“I know he talks big, but he worries as much as anyone about what he has to offer the team.”

“He seems like a good guy,” Tony says, patting dry his face.

“Yeah, he is,” Steve agrees. “And I’ve told him that. But giving him your tech, something that none of the rest of us...”

Tony shoves the toothbrush into Steve’s mouth, efficiently shutting him up. Steve frowns, but stays silent.

“It’s not just for him,” Tony says quietly, stepping back. “The BIRD will have a lot of the functions the suit... I... used to give you.”

Absently, almost out of habit, Steve begins to brush his teeth. Truth is he technically doesn’t need to any more, his body fights tooth decay the same way it fights any insult to his wellbeing, but cleaning your teeth is just something you _do_.

Tony moves closer again, putting a palm flat to Steve’s stomach. It’s a spot they both know: just above the navel, slightly to one side. It’s the scarless wound where Bucky shot him - not that Tony _knows_ it’s Bucky who shot him, just that it’s the closest Steve has come to losing a fight since he came out of the ice. 

“If I’m not going to be out there with you,” Tony says, voice barely above a whisper, “I want to know I’ve done everything I can to keep you safe. All of you.”

Steve’s motions falter. He takes the toothbrush out of his mouth and lays it down beside the sink. On their own, Steve can be that bit bolder, that punk-mouthed Brooklyn kid making its presence felt. He tugs Tony so they are flush, arms circling the nip of his waist. He leans in and kisses him, tasting mint. “Oh, you are getting lucky tonight,” he says. 

Tony offers him a goofy smile. “I get lucky every night I’m with you.” Then his smile breaks, and he laughs. “Oh, God, I’m sorry. I can’t believe I just said that out loud.”

“Ass,” Steve says, taking a swipe at that particular anatomical feature as Tony slips past him and back into the main part of the suite. He sheds clothing on the way, collecting them over his arm and then depositing them on the back of a chair. 

“Like you’d have me any other way,” Tony calls over his shoulder as he disappears into the sleeping area. 

Steve tugs off his jeans and socks, over-arming them into the laundry basket. He hurries after Tony, finding the other man already in bed. He slips in beside him, the cotton smooth and cool. With practiced ease, he pulls Tony up and over, letting his partner settle back against his thighs. “Depends what you’re suggesting,” he says, giving it his best shot at sultry.

Tong leans in, fingers curling into the fabric of Steve’s top. His eyelids droop. Steve is almost envious: Tony is _far_ better at sultry than he is. “What’ve you got in mind?” he murmurs.

A wicked little thought crosses Steve’s mind, a smirk stretching over his face in response. “Well,” he drawls, deliberately stretching the word out. “Have you ever considered shaving off your beard?”

Tony looks shocked. Shocked and _appalled_. Shocked, appalled and _indignant_. “This is a patented look,” he gasps. “I get a commission every time someone copies my style.”

“And God knows you need the money.”

“Well, my guy has expensive tastes.”

“I heard he prefers the simple things in life.”

“That would explain what he’s doing with me.” Tony’s smile is tinged with self-consciousness, widening into a smirk. “You know, Nat’s right. We _are_ gross.”

“Yeah,” Steve agrees. 

Tony leans in, lips and bristles ghosting across Steve’s skin. “FRIDAY, kill the lights,” he says.

Distracted as he is, Steve swears he hears FRIDAY grumble ‘spoilsport’ in the dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come say hi on [Tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/opposablethumbs-on-ao3) or leave me a comment below if you like!


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ross is an asshole. Tony is an asshole. Steve... you can probably work it out for yourself.

The door to the secret lair of ‘we hate superheroes’ whooshes open and Tony is ushered inside by the same Agent Tall-dark-and-allegedly-humorous that he encountered on his first visit.

Ross is sat in his oversized chair, a look of smug satisfaction twitching at his lips. “Well, would you look at what the Cap dragged in.”

Tony offers him a mirthless smile. “And Merry Christmas to you too, Ross. Or do I call you Mr. Secretary now?”

“It’s true the president has placed a burden of trust in my hands.”

“Yeah, about that, Teddy,” Tony says. He watches Ross’s eyes narrow but (sadly), the former general doesn’t rise to the bait. “There’s some things we need to talk about. Mind if I sit?” He sits without waiting for a reply.

“If this is about the wire we placed in your phone, I agree it was a crass move.”

Tony snorts. “Please. It took me about three minutes to find and disable. Now maybe if I was someone completely different, someone who didn’t think their government was above spying on them, it might’ve worked...”

Tony gives Ross the chance he told himself he would - the perfect opportunity to admit the tap on Steve’s phone. 

Ross sits back. “Then I’m glad we can put it behind us.”

Okay, that’s how it’s going to be then. “Oh yeah,” Tony says, mirroring the action. “Way behind.” He smiles at Ross.

Silence reigns for a good forty seconds. At last, Ross breaks it with an irritated wrap of his knuckles on the glass conference table. “So,” he grunts, “not that it isn’t delightful just to see you Tony, but I’m missing aperitifs at the Belgian Embassy to be here...”

Tony licks his lips. He called for this meeting for a reason, but now that it’s here, he finds himself reluctant to say what he has to say to that contemptuous face. To make it easier, Tony focuses on one of the monitors over Ross’s shoulder. He grits his teeth. “You’re not wrong.”

Ross splutters, a snort half-way between surprise and scorn. “Excuse me, did you just say...”

Tony turns his attention back on Ross, offering the older man a crooked eyebrow. “Not being wrong isn’t the same as being right,” he corrects. “Trust me, that’s something I know a little bit about. But I’m man enough to admit that you may have a small, _small_ , point regarding oversight. And that sometimes, when you’re too close to a thing, it’s hard to see it clearly.”

“And is that what you are?” Ross asks. “Too close?”

Tony’s jaw clenches convulsively before he has himself back under control. “I’m exactly where I need to be,” he dismisses. “That’s the one thing you _were_ right about. It’s my responsibility to know what’s going on under my own roof.”

Ross’s eyebrow crooks upward. “And what have you found out?”

“Well, mostly that Widow has terrible taste in movies. But I’m pretty sure there’s no clandestine activities going on, if that’s what you mean.”

Ross drums his fingers on the surface of the conference table. His lips purse and then he surges to his feet and begins to pace. On his third pass, he turns on Tony. “What do you know about Madripoor?” he asks.

A cold crawl of concern creeps up Tony’s spine. He shrugs, managing - he hopes - to keep his body language neutral. “Less than some. More than most,” he says.

“And can you think of any business that Captain Rogers might have had there?”

Lunch. A hotel room. A Jacuzzi. Room service. Me. “Nothing that comes to mind,” Tony says. “Are you saying you have photographic evidence that - for some reason - Cap was in Madripoor?”

Ross’s lips twitch. “No,” he says. “If you know anything about Madripoor, you know that its security services do not take kindly to covert observations being conducted on sovereign soil.”

“Yeah, I believe they consider it ‘rude’.”

“Rude enough to cause an international incident over,” Ross agrees.

“So,” Tony drawls, feeling the incumbent victory. “If all you’re basing this on is that someone _claims_ to have seen Captain America in a... politically sensitive country, couldn’t it just be that they spotted a UFC wannabe and made an incorrect I.D.?”

Ross fidgets, fingers drumming on the table. A clutch of uncertainty tightens in Tony’s chest. “What have you got?” he asks flatly.

He watches Ross weigh him up, eyes pinched to narrow folds beneath his white eyebrows. Finally, the decision is made. “For some time now, we have been monitoring Captain America’s activity by the use of a device similar to the one you discovered in your own cellular phone.”

Tony doesn’t have to feign his surprise, just the cause of it. “You’ve been bugging Steve Rogers’ phone? My god, did someone dig McCarthy up?”

“Joke all you want,” Ross says, “but some might say that as one of the highest profile American citizens operating in the global arena, we have the right to ensure that he doesn’t compromise the integrity of this nation.”

Tony goes to reply. Something about how Steve Rogers and the word ‘integrity’ are virtually synonymous. But his flippant remark gets stuck on the irony: if Steve had left his damn phone home like Tony had asked him to - like he _told_ Tony he had - this whole conversation wouldn’t be taking place.

He swallows down the bitterness, and turns the bullshit up to 11. “You know what?” he says, “I’ve just remembered. That was me. I had some trade negotiations over in Singapore, decided to stop off on the way back for a little... R&R, if you know what I mean.” He wiggles his eyebrows meaningfully at Ross. “But when we put down, I found all of the contacts in my phone book were veterans and Boy Scout leaders and realised I’d picked up his phone by mistake.”

Ross folds his arms. “Really,” he says.

Tony offers him a winning, socialite smile. “We’re always getting the team phones mixed up. I really should design us suit-coordinated cases to put on them. Maybe little dangly charms?”

“If you’re not going to take this seriously, Mr. Stark...”

Tony holds up a hand. “No. I do. I really do. Even with SI’s _considerable_ contributions, and the work of the Maria Stark Relief Fund, there’s still more that can be done to make the public see that the Avengers are fighting _for_ them. And we can’t do that while our own government is against us.”

“So you agree to work for us?” Ross says. The smug look stretching itself out over his face makes Tony want to take it back.

“No,” he says. “But I will work _with_ with you to ensure the best outcome for everyone.”

“We couldn’t do it without you,” Ross says, cynicism not far from the surface. 

Tony gets to his feet and looks up at the ceiling camera. “Hey, chuckles. That’s your cue.”

“His name’s Ian,” Ross says quietly.

“Chuckles suits him better.”

Agent Chuckles enters the room. “Mr. Stark,” he says flatly.

Tony offers him a wink then turns back to Ross. “Enjoy your soirée, Mr. Secretary.”

Ross matches him, toothsome grin for toothsome grin. “No need to be so formal Tony. We’re friends now. Sir will do just fine.”

****

Tony can’t get back to the parking garage fast enough but, once he is, the idea of getting into the car makes his heart race. He hasn’t felt like this for well over a year: that sense that he can’t breathe, that he wants to run away from himself. He leans against the car, taking deep breaths. It’s something Banner showed him. Breathe from the stomach; clench on the inhale, relax on the exhale. At last the urge to flee subsides and he slides into the leather-seated comfort of his custom-built coupe.

He presses his thumb to the ignition and the electrics all come alive. The oscillating blue sphere that signifies the car is connected to Tony’s personal network hovers in pseudo-3D in one corner of the windscreen. 

“Hey FRIDAY,” he says. “You know those phone records of Steve’s that I didn’t need to see?”

The virtual intelligence answers in her Irish brogue. “Yes, Boss?”

“I need to see them.”

“You sure about that?”

Not for the first time, Tony misses JARVIS. JARVIS didn’t answer back. Well, he did, but usually at the same time as he was doing whatever you asked him to do. “Does it sound like I’m anything less than sure?” he asks.

“Boss, I don’t think...”

Finally, the thread of Tony’s patience snaps. “No!” he barks. “You _don’t_ think, FRIDAY. You’re a VI. You process. So process this: if you don’t show me Steven Rogers’ phone records for the last six months, right, and I mean _right_ , now, I will personally pull a HAL9000 on you. Do you understand me, Daisy?”

There’s a split second delay, the equivalent of a pregnant pause in an electronic timescale, before the records flash up onto the car’s HUD. “Yes, Dave,” FRIDAY mutters sullenly.

****

Tony calmly pulls into the complex’s grounds and parks the car in the garage.

“FRIDAY, please could you tell me the location of Steve Rogers?” he asks calmly.

“Rec room, L8,” FRIDAY replies, her voice just clipped enough to make it obvious he still isn’t forgiven for his earlier tirade.

Calmly, Tony rides the elevator to L8. He walks down the corridor at a measured pace, and enters the rec room without any undue fuss. 

He’s calm. He’s absolutely calm.

Sam is sprawled on one of the couches, a games controller in his lap and a frozen scene from some co-op shooter on the television set. Steve is in the kitchen fixing a drink. At the sight of him, Tony realises one thing: he is really not calm.

“You stupid son of a bitch,” he growls, advancing a step into the room.

“Tony?” Steve says, eyes wide at both the sudden appearance and outburst.

“Who else would _dare_ call Captain America a son of a bitch?” Tony snorts. He levels a finger on Sam. “Certainly not your buddy, there.”

“Whoa, Tony,” Sam says, getting to his feet. “Obviously you’re pissed about something, but why not try telling us what it is instead of just shouting?”

“Oh, it’s not what _I’ve_ got to say. It’s what Mr. Red, White, and Blue here’s got to say that I’m interested in.”

Steve is on Tony’s side of the counter now, a few paces from him. “Tony, I don’t...”

“Did you take your phone with you to Madripoor?”

“You said to leave it home.” Even as he says it, Steve’s gaze drops away to the floor and that just confirms it. 

“But you took it anyway,” Tony says.

Steve looks up. There’s a little glimmer there, a flash of defiance. In a different situation, Tony might quite enjoy it. “Tony, look. I’m sorry. I admit it wasn’t my finest hour. But c’mon, it’s only my phone. What harm could come of it?”

Tony snorts, facing off to Steve, chin lifted in challenge. “I told you I had the sub-C transponder. I said the team could do without us for one night. But, no. You never take the suit off, do you? Captain America, always on duty.”

Sam steps between them, one hand to Steve’s chest, the other an inch or so from Tony. “Hey, both of you. It sounds like Cap made a bad call, but is it really worth all this?”

“This does _not_ concern you, flyboy,” Tony growls.

“Sam,” Steve says quietly.

Sam looks between them, then puts up his hands in surrender. “All right, I’m gone. But if this is all just some weird foreplay, I will not be a happy falcon at getting dragged into it.”

Once Sam is out of earshot, Steve drops onto a barstool. “How did you find out?”

“I know because Ross knows.”

Confusion draws down Steve’s brow. “Ross?” 

“Secretary Thaddeus Ross. The guy who chased Banner across half the world, nearly wrote Harlem off the map, and who is now in charge this great nation’s foreign policy.”

“Why would some politician know that we went to Madripoor? Why would he even care?” 

Tony sighs, the fight knocked out of him by the naivety in Steve’s blue eyes. “Because he’s had a tap on your phone for the last five months.”

He watches Steve’s face as it sinks in. 

“You knew,” Steve says at last. “That’s why you didn’t want me taking my phone.”

“I knew,” Tony agrees.

Steve’s on his feet; Tony isn’t a small man but he’s not super-soldier sized by any stretch. “Damn it, Tony,” Steve says. “Why would you keep something like that to yourself? Of all the arrogant...”

“I was managing it,” Tony says, putting a small gap between them. “I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want Ross finding out that I knew. So all I let him have was the kind of thing he could get with a regular warrant: cell location, numbers in, numbers out. Everything else, I had FRIDAY strip.”

“So instead of the government spying on me, you were?”

“No,” Tony says, voice flat. “Steve, I swear. I never looked at the data. At least...”

“Until today.”

Tony nods. “Lot of wrong numbers, Cap.” He sees something flash in the other man’s eyes. Not anger. Not even guilt. Steve pushes past him and heads for the door. “Where are you going?” he demands. 

“Why don’t you ask your pal Ross?” Steve shoots back with a sneer, ignoring the lift and slamming his way instead into the stairwell. 

The fire door quivers on its hinges as it swings back into position and Tony collapses heavily into a seat, knowing how it feels.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [I'm on Tumblr!](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/opposablethumbs-on-ao3)
> 
> (My asks are open, come say hi!)


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vision gives relationship advice. Steve has something very important to say to Tony. DUM-E takes his parenting duties very seriously.

Steve doesn’t go far. There’s no point. There’s no distance he can cover and no speed he can muster to leave this mess behind. He lies down on a hillock at the boundary of the compound, the ground beneath his back damp from a dusting of frost. There are so many stars. Even as a kid, he never saw a sky so beautiful. While the electric haze from the city wasn’t as bright back then as it is these days, the air was seldom clear of smoke and cloying smog. But out here, in the rolling wilds upstate, the sky looks like it’s been pierced by an incomprehensible number of diamonds.

He’s not sure how long he lies there; long enough for the moon to rise from behind a line of trees. He closes his eyes, listening to the sounds of the night: the gentle brush of leaves, the burble of distant water, creatures scuttling in the underbrush. 

“Captain Rogers?”

Steve’s eyes fly open at the unexpected greeting, coming as it does from perhaps six feet above him. He rolls to his right, away from the intruder, his hand shooting out for his shield before he realises that it’s back in his suite. His heart pounds, but his eyes slowly focus in the moonlight.

“Vision?” Steve gawps. 

The synthetic being lowers himself silently to the ground. “I am sorry if I startled you.”

Steve wipes his palms on the front of his trousers. “No, it’s fine. I just didn’t realise anyone else was out here.” His breath fogs a cloud before him.

“I wasn’t,” Vision states. “But I grew concerned about you when you did not return after your disagreement with Mr. Stark.”

“You know Tony and I had... words?”

“Oh yes,” Vision replies. “I monitor all internal communications in this facility.”

“Um, okay. We’ll talk about that sometime,” Steve says. “But you don’t need to worry. Tony and I... we just needed to put some space between us to figure out how this plays out.”

Vision considers him for a few seconds, eyes glinting as they catch moonbeams. “Am I correct in my hypothesis that you and Mr. Stark are in a sexual relationship?”

The bluntness of the statement catches Steve off-guard. He splutters, immediately feeling heat rise in his cheeks. “Tony and I are... well, I mean yes. We, uh... do that.”

If Vision senses any discomfort, he doesn’t show it. Steve squares his shoulders, catches his breath, and tries to emulate his companion’s impassive demeanour. “Yes, Tony and I are in a sexual relationship,” he answers.

Vision nods thoughtfully. “It is my understanding that most relationships of that nature fail due to a lack of communication.”

“Tony and I aren’t... failing. We had an argument is all.”

“About a lack of communication?”

Steve goes to answer back, then purses his lips. “Okay, yes.”

“And if I might be so bold,” Vision says, his cape fluttering slightly as a gust of wind catches it, “this is not the first time you have both withheld information from the other.”

Steve’s chest tightens. “No, it isn’t.”

“I have reviewed the events that led to my creation, and it seems likely that had you both communicated adequately and openly with one another at that time, many of the occurrences that transpired could have been mitigated or avoided entirely.”

“So, you’re saying it’s our fault?” Steve tries to keep the defensiveness out of his voice but knows he doesn’t fully succeed.

“I am _suggesting_...” It’s the first hint of emotion in the android’s voice, and sounds rather a lot like irritation, “that you should perhaps consider talking to Mr. Stark about this situation rather than sequestering yourself out here for an indefinite period of time.”

Steve takes a deep breath, holds it, and lets it slowly go. The cool night air steams around him. “You’re probably right,” he concedes.

“As is often the case.” In anyone else, Steve might read that as hubris, but the Vision... Steve still doesn’t know entirely what to make of him. Even amid his stilted, overly-formal tone, there is compassion. He seems to lack the same concepts of modesty as a flesh-and-blood human, but there is no doubting that his intentions are good. 

Steve stretches out his muscles and looks back at the illuminated compound, a good half mile away, and sighs. “Do you know where Tony is at the moment?”

“When I left the premises, Mr. Stark was in the garage, working on a device that I am at this time unable to identify.”

“Did it look pointy?” Steve asks.

“It did not, Captain Rogers.”

“Then I’m probably okay,” replies Steve with a weak smile. “And you don’t have to keep calling me Captain Rogers. We’re friends.”

“What should I call you?”

Steve shrugs. “What the rest of the team calls me.”

“I’m not sure ‘Captain Great-ass’ is an appropriate address in this case.”

“Okay, what the rest of the team calls me other than Tony,” Steve says, shaking his head and allowing a slight chuckle to escape.

“Is it not possible for us to be friends _and_ for me to address you as Captain Rogers?” Vision asks. 

Steve frowns. “Well, yes. Of course. If that’s what makes you comfortable.”

They begin the walk back to the main building side by side. “You know,” Steve says as they stroll, “this is just like old times. Pals showing up to offer me unsolicited but highly practical advice.”

“I can desist if you would rather,” Vision replies calmly.

Steve thinks about it, but not for long. “Don’t you dare,” he says.

**** 

Steve’s palms sweat slightly as he kneels in front of his closet, leaning in among the neat lines of boots. From the back, he brings out a box; tattered a bit about the lid. It’s an age-old concession to keep one’s mementoes in such a container, and Steve, in a lot of ways, is an old-fashioned guy. But that isn’t what this is. Well, not entirely. This is hiding in plain sight. A lockbox would draw attention, a safe would like as not bear the Stark trademark. Vaults are like beacons flashing in the night: ‘come look at what I’ve got’. But a box, a plain old green box, with frayed white corners and a little smudge on one side, is the kind of thing that people miss. They expect it will contain nothing but old coupons and cinema stubs, a few photos and maybe a love letter or two. Things of value only to the bearer. 

Steve opens the box. Inside are several buff-coloured files. The top one is Steve’s own evaluation for the ‘Avengers Initiative’. Physical records and psych evals from when he first came round in the 21st century. Some are less than complimentary. Steve puts it to one side. Beneath is a thicker file containing all of the remaining documents relating to Project Rebirth. Steve ‘liberated’ them from SHIELD’s archives not long after he signed on with them. He’d not known then about digital copies, but as the information was not among the millions of files released to the public when the agency fell, he feels confident this is everything that’s left of Erskine’s work, outside his own altered body. 

The last file is the one he is looking for, stamped with Cyrillic: the dossier that Romanoff secured from Minsk at Lord-knows what personal cost. He takes it out. At the bottom of the box is one final object, the pitted and fused shell of a pocket compass. It will never open again but Steve likes to think that inside, Peggy’s photo remains perfect and untouched by the ravages of time, much as her face does in his mind. He brushes his fingers once over the scarred surface, and then puts the first two files back on top of it. He returns the lid to the box and the box to the back of the closet.

He gets to his feet with a sigh, weary not from physical effort but from the weight of memories the file places upon him. Memories that stretch over more than one lifetime, but still remain fresh and painful and as dangerous as ever. But the idea of losing Tony to this secret hurts too; an aching sensation in the pit of his stomach. I won’t lose another. I won’t let them down.

He has to tell Tony about Bucky.

****

Steve takes the elevator down to the garage, the ride all-too-short as the doors open and unceremoniously deposit him directly into the engineer’s domain. As to be expected, it’s a chaos of unpleasantly loud music and the smell of soldering. The smaller of Tony’s two robots, a scaled-down version of the older helper-bot, darts haphazardly about the piles of scrap metal and propane tanks. The larger model trails behind, apparently charged with ensuring nothing untoward occurs. To Steve, they look nothing less than an excited toddler and a weary parent, and he finds himself just watching them for a moment. They’re kind of... cute. Steve shakes himself. Tony is definitely rubbing off on him.

Speaking of, the man in question is to be found in the middle of the garage, stooped over the long workbench. He doesn’t even lift his head as Steve silences the music. He’s involved in some fine work, magnifier lenses flipped down over his goggles and a micro-probe held over some kind of fragmented device. A wire connects the probe to an adhesive pad attached to Tony’s temple. A slight _fzzt_ sounds and the probe emits a small shower of sparks. Suddenly a ghost-like image appears from one of Tony’s holographic interfaces. It’s fuzzy and imprecise, but it appears to be the figure of a woman. The image wobbles, flickers, then disappears.

“Dammit,” Tony curses quietly.

Steve takes a few further steps into the garage, his fingers tightening on the manila file in his grasp. “Help me Obi-Wan Kenobi,” he says. “You’re my only hope.”

Tony jerks upright, the pad detaching itself from his head. “Dammit! You nearly gave me a heart-attack.” He pulls off the darkened welding goggles and squints at Steve. “And have I mentioned how disturbing it is when you quote Star Wars?”

Steve shrugs, feigning casualness. “It’s what the kids do.”

A slight smile tugs at Tony’s cheek. “Except those kids are in their forties now.”

Steve matches his expression. “Like I say. Youngsters.” He nods at a chair tucked away under one of the workstations. “Mind if I sit?”

Tony nods. “Mi casa es su casa.”

Steve looks at him for a moment, reading in Tony’s face that those words should mean more to him than they do. “No, don’t get it,” he admits at last. He takes the chair. 

“Noted for next movie night,” Tony says. He sighs and wheels a chair up so he can sit down beside Steve.

Steve places the file on the table before them and lays his hand on top of it. Tony’s eyes follow the action and then move up to connect with his own. Those intense, intelligent eyes mirror so much of what Steve is feeling that it sends a shiver through him. He licks his lips, readying himself to speak. But, before he can, Tony beats him to it.

“Look, I know I acted like an ass earlier. Going off like that in front of Sam, it was uncalled for.”

“I think there was some call,” Steve says, dipping his head a fraction. “But I was still pretty pissed with you.” He catches the slight twitch of Tony’s lips. “Don’t say it,” he cautions.

Tony quirks his eyebrow, but doesn’t pass comment on Steve’s choice language. “I should have told you what was going on,” he says.

Steve’s stomach clenches. He takes a deep breath, lets it go. “So should I.”

Tentatively, Tony reaches out, putting his hand over Steve’s, and in turn over Bucky’s file. “It’s not too late,” he says quietly.

The warm curl of Tony’s fingers is familiar and comforting. Steve turns his hand over so their palms press together, then takes Tony’s hand and lifts it to his lips. He kisses the rough tips of Tony’s fingers and tastes the traces of metal there. A small smile tugs Tony’s cheek, the little wrinkles around his eyes deepening into creases.

Steve puts Tony’s hand to one side and turns his attention to the dossier on the table, the Cyrillic lettering on its front staring back. Tony follows his gaze down, and Steve opens the folder. The first item inside is the photograph of Bucky in the strange machine the Soviet’s apparently kept him in. His face is hidden behind a breathing mask, but the bite of the braces around his wrists and the tubes and wires carelessly inserted under his pale skin are unmistakable in their cruelty.

Steve looks up, studying Tony’s face. His brow is drawn, freed fingers absently tracing the tangle of cables on the photograph, as though attempting to unravel their function.

Keeping his voice low and level, Steve tries to explain. “When Nat released SHIELD’s files, a lot of HYDRA’s secrets came out too,” he says. “This is one of them. They called him The Winter Soldier, but before he became that, he had a name.”

“James Barnes” Tony says. “I read it on the front of the file.”

Steve feels affection mingled with admiration tug at his chest. Of course Tony can read Russian. “Yeah,” he agrees. “That was what was stamped on his tags.” Steve swallows, throat suddenly tight. “But to his friends, he was just Bucky.”

Confusion flickers on Tony’s face. He looks again at the faded photograph. “You knew him?”

“We were pals,” Steve says. “No,” he corrects, annoyance at his own understatement hardening his tone. “We were more than that. Bucky, he was my… everything. We grew up together. When my ma passed he looked after me, even though I was a jerk who thought he didn’t need help. During the War, we served together, in the 107th. And then he… died.

Tony’s eyes are still on the photograph. “He doesn’t look particularly dead here,” he observes.

“Neither do I,” Steve says. “Before I went to the front lines, Bucky was captured by HYDRA. They… experimented on him. When he fell - when I let him fall - they found him again. Whatever they’d done to him helped him survive, but that wasn’t enough. They took him and brainwashed him, turned him into a killer. In between missions he was kept like this.”

Tony’s throat bobs as he swallows. “That’s... inhuman,” he says. 

“That’s HYDRA.” Steve’s reply is heavy with bitterness. He pauses, forcing his tone level before continuing. “When Fury and I uncovered they had infiltrated SHIELD, he was the one they sent after us. After me.”

Tony’s entire focus falls on Steve, processing the meaning behind his words with almost intimidating speed. The colour drains from his cheeks. “He shot you,” he says flatly.

Steve nods slowly. “Yes.”

“The bastard shot you.” There’s a little more edge in his voice now.

“I was his mission.”

Something in Tony seems to snap at Steve’s reply. “How can you be so goddamned calm about it?” he demands. “He nearly fucking killed you. I know you think that serum of yours makes you invincible, but it doesn’t. There’s a finite rate you can heal at, and if the trauma is too great, like - oh, I don’t know - taking an anti-personnel slug to the gut, you will _die_ , Steve.”

The pain on Tony’s face is so evident that Steve can’t stop himself reaching out to smooth it away. He brushes Tony’s cheek with his fingertips, palm curling round to cup his jaw. “But I didn’t,” he whispers. “A few inches to one side, the bullet would have ruptured my liver. Another few inches up and it would have gone through my heart. Bucky could’ve made that shot, even before HYDRA got their hands on him. The Soldier missed, Bucky didn’t. That’s why I’m alive. That, and because he found me and fished me out of the Potomac, leaving me right where Sam would look.” 

Steve sees Tony’s jaw work, the ripple of muscle as he clenches his teeth. “So now he’s out in the world,” Tony says. “This assassin.”

Steve shakes his head. “No. Not exactly. He’s not the Soldier anymore. Maybe he’s not Bucky yet either, but his memories are coming back.”

Tony’s eyebrows twitch upwards. “And you know this, how? It’s nearly two years since you’ve seen him.”

Steve’s gaze drops to the metal desk before him.

Tony reaches out and lifts his chin with a single finger, locking their eyes together. “It’s been two years, right?”

“Sam and I, we’ve been looking for him. Following reports, sightings. But we never caught up to him.” A wry smile barely graces his lips. “Bucky always was good at Hide-and-Seek.”

A look of what could be relief flashes on Tony’s face, but stutters and fails as he reads the hesitation on Steve’s face. “He found you instead,” Tony states.

“In Madripoor,” Steve admits quietly. “When you went to speak to Amuk. He was careful, kept us away from the street. I thought he was trying to avoid being seen, but maybe he wanted to make sure _I_ wouldn’t be seen with _him_.”

“You think he knew you were being monitored?”

Steve shrugs. “Maybe. He knew enough to know where we were. That, and he had...”

Again, Tony’s mind works dazzlingly fast. “Your phone number,” he concludes on Steve’s behalf.

Steve chews the inside of his lip. “Yes,” he says. “He wanted me to stop tracking him. Told me he’d call once a week, so I’d know he’s still… in control of himself. Made me promise that if he ever stops, I’ll not come looking.”

Tony takes a deep breath. “Smart guy,” he says. “Was he always brighter than you?”

“Pretty much,” Steve replies, rubbing the back of his neck. He tries for a grin. “Guess I always had a thing for the brainy ones.”

A cloud passes over Tony’s face, muscles that were beginning to relax pinching tight. Steve puzzles at it, before understanding clips him round the ear. “I didn’t mean like that,” he says hastily. “Me and Bucky, we were never… It just wasn’t a _thing_. Back then, you know.”

“Like hell,” Tony snorts. “All those bath-houses down by the docks?”

“It was never like that for _us_ ,” Steve corrects.

Tony’s fingers drum on the desk, his eyes narrow and intent on Steve’s face. “I believe you,” he says after a long pause. “And, for what it’s worth, I’m sorry. About your friend. And about putting us in this situation.”

“It’s on both of us. We should’ve talked.”

“Communication is the cornerstone of a healthy relationship, so I hear.”

“Who’d you get?” Steve asks, braving a small smile.

Tony’s face softens, a smirk just beginning to form on his lips. “Nat. I locked the elevator out. She hacked it. Smarter than she lets on, our little Miss Incey Wincey.”

“Does she know you call her that?” Steve asks, twitching his eyebrows.

“I still have functional kneecaps, don’t I?” Tony replies with a short laugh. But even as he does, he begins thumbing through the dossier. Steve needed help to understand the contents, but Tony doesn’t falter, lips moving as he silently mouths some of the words. He grimaces as he reads the details of the experiments conducted on Buck’s body and mind, and Steve feels an echo of nausea as he remembers first deciphering what was written there. Then Tony moves onto the mission list. Steve sees his eyes widen as his finger trails past a specific codex: 11-22-63. That’s all there is, just a six-digit code that relates to a date and a red cross in the margin to indicate mission success. The blurry words Nat once said - about having ‘red in my ledger’ - suddenly take on a sharp edge for Steve. These marks are so much more than just ink. Each one signifies a person, a _life_. The thought sends a shudder through him. 

There are so many.

Tony closes the dossier before he reaches much past half-way through the list. He looks shaken, skin pale and eyes tired, but his voice is steady when he speaks. “Give me your phone.” 

Steve pats down his pockets, finds resistance, and pulls the sleek cell out of his pants. He hands it to Tony.

Tony picks up a small screwdriver and within seconds the phone is in parts. He pulls out a thin circle of what looks like transparent plastic, but as he holds it up to the light, Steve can see an almost invisible network of wires criss-crossing its surface. Placing it down on the metal workbench, Tony swaps out his screwdriver for a fine soldering iron and uses it to destroy the flimsy tech. 

“Right, done,” he says. “Ross can stick that in his ass with the other bugs.”

The smell of burned plastic tickles Steve’s nose. “There are others?” he asks innocently.

Tony rolls his eyes. “No, I meant…” Then he catches Steve’s smile. “Oh, you’re such a tease.”

The words jolt through Steve, pooling in the pit of his stomach. Tony typically uses that particular noun under different circumstances, almost all of which involve less clothing than they are currently wearing.

As though reading his mind, or at least the flush in his cheeks, Tony leans in. Steve closes the gap eagerly, eyes drifting closed as the familiar scents and taste fill his senses. The kiss deepens, and Steve curls his fingers into the fabric of Tony’s t-shirt, tugging him closer. Tony clambers onto Steve’s chair with him, thighs pressed either side of Steve’s hips and chest rising and falling in a damp mingling of cotton and skin.

He’s so entangled in the breathy noises of pleasure and the grate of denim and cotton, that Steve almost misses the strange mechanical whirring noise that comes from his left. In fact, it’s only when it sounds a second time, slightly louder, that Steve turns to look. What he doesn’t expect to see the is the larger of Tony’s two robots shaking it’s shiny black head at them, while the smaller bumps about with a chamois rag draped over its visual input. 

Steve can’t help it. He laughs.

Tony pulls back with a small, disgruntled whine. He follows the direction of Steve’s gaze, taking in the scene with a quiet click of his tongue. “DUM-E, you wanna take DUM-R to your room? It’s past his bedtime.”

The larger robot chirps again, a vaguely put-upon and long-suffering sound, and then nudges the smaller one towards the door.

Tony waits until both are safely out of the garage before he allows his weight to fall back into Steve’s lap with quite deliberate emphasis. “Where were we?” he asks with a smirk.

Just then, the intercom on the wall sounds.

“Oh, right. Being interrupted,” Tony remarks. He waves his hand vaguely in the direction of the intercom and the screen jumps into life, Natasha’s face looming up on the hopefully one-way monitor. 

“Right,” she says, “you boys have either had long enough to kill each other or kiss and make-up. Either way, I need Cap back up here. There’s a situation developing in Nevada that he needs to see.”

Tony rolls his eyes. “All right,” he says aloud, “I’ll send him up.” The screen goes blank. Tony turns back to Steve, a little tilt in his head. “Always something, isn’t there?”

Steve sighs. “Pretty much,” he agrees.

Tony disentangles himself from Steve’s lap with a little huff of displeasure. Steve gets to his feet, trying to smooth out the wrinkles the heat of Tony’s body has pressed into his shirt. He hesitates, torn between leaving and calling Nat back and telling her to take the team out herself.

“Go on,” Tony says, recognising his uncertainty. “The world needs you. I’ll still be here when you get home.”

Steve nods and makes to leave, but Tony snags his hand and pulls him back in for a brief kiss. “Be careful,” he murmurs against Steve’s lips.

Steve steps away and offers him a jaunty salute. “Always am.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on [Tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/opposablethumbs-on-AO3), and I'd love to hear from you!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve hurts his ass and Tony dreams about his parents*
> 
> *this chapter refers to the death of Howard and Maria and explicitly mentions hospitals

“I told him to be careful! I told him to be bloody careful!”

There’s a nurse barring Tony’s way into the treatment room in the compound’s small but well-equipped medical facility.

“I was being careful!” Steve shouts through into the corridor.

“If you’re so damn careful, why are there doctors here?” Tony tries to side-swerve the nurse but she’s too fast and moves to block him. 

“Mr. Stark,” she says, in that patient yet firm way that only a nurse can, “Captain Rogers is being examined by Doctor Mirza and may not be... comfortable with you seeing him in a state of undress.”

Tony almost - almost, because Steve is a good influence on him - laughs in her face. “Hey _Cap_ ,” he calls, “the nurse is worried about me seeing you with your drawers down.”

There’s a moment’s pause, then Steve replies. “It’s okay, he can come in.”

Tony offers the nurse a sweet smile as he pushes past her.

The treatment room is fairly well stocked: a 3D x-ray scanner and display to one side, oxygen canisters in the lock-up in the corner, and a few other pieces of medically-stuff that beep and whirr in a way that Tony could absolutely decipher in ten seconds flat if he wasn’t quite so pre-occupied.

In the middle of the room, there’s a bed and a doctor and a light. And on the bed, under the light, is Steve. He’s turned face down, a shredded pile of what was once his uniform bottoms stained dark with blood dumped on the floor at his side. The doctor is bent close over his... well, his backside, a large set of forceps in his hand. He’s pulling what look to be bits of metal out of Steve’s buttocks and thigh and dropping them with a clang into a kidney bowl.

“Almost done here,” the doctor says.

“And then can I kill him?” Tony asks. He marches up to Steve’s bedside, kicking away the ruined rags. Steve turns his head and smiles at him, a small smile that’s not so much weak as it is private. Relief rushes through Tony and he feels himself sway as the adrenaline cuts out.

“It’s not as bad as it looks,” Steve says quietly. “I was chasing down the bad guys. A gas cylinder blew up, caught me from behind. It was already healing when I got here, doc had to cut me back open to get to the shrapnel.”

“Oh, well, I’ll break out the band aids and Bactine and kiss it better shall I?” Tony sees the doctor’s eyebrows jump, but seven years of med school and heaven knows how much training by SHIELD is apparently enough to stifle any grander expression of surprise at Tony’s outburst.

Pink creeps up Steve’s cheeks. “Tony...”

To hell with it. “Hippocratic oath, right, doc?” Tony says, directing it towards the medic.

“I’m just here for the ass,” the doctor replies.

Tony smiles grimly and takes Steve’s hand. He scootches down on his haunches so his face is at the same level as Steve’s. “You had me worried for a bit there. All I got was a radio message saying you were injured.”

“I told Nat to tell you I was fine,” Steve protests. He doesn’t try to extract his hand, but Tony holds it tightly anyway.

“Little Miss isn’t as good at following orders as some of us.”

Despite the fact that he’s undergoing minor surgery, Steve laughs. “When have you ever followed my orders?”

Tony matches his smile. “Maybe you’re just not giving me the right ones,” he says, voice low enough for Steve to get the inference.

Steve’s blush deepens and Tony feels heat in his own cheeks, almost a programmed response. Tony isn’t sure he’ll ever know how Steve brings out this bashful streak in him, but he does.

“Well, that’s all the pieces out and the area cleaned,” the doctor says, straightening. Tony stands with him, but doesn’t let go of Steve’s hand.

“I’d tell you to have the nursing staff change the dressing in the morning, Captain Rogers,” the doctor says, pulling the facemask down to his neck and addressing Steve, “but with your enhanced physiology, I don’t expect that will be necessary. I would like you to spend the next twenty-four hours on bed rest, however.” He lifts his head to look at Tony. “Do you think you could make sure that happens, Mr. Stark?”

“I think I can manage that,” Tony replies, a slight smile twisting his lips.

“Very well, I discharge him into your care, then.” The doctor leaves the examination room and Tony hears the quiet murmur of a handover taking place in the other room.

Steve rolls onto his side, weight balanced on his unscathed buttock, and then carefully swings himself to a sitting position. Pain flashes in a grimace on his face and Tony reaches out to steady him.

Just then, the nurse comes in with a pair of elasticised pyjama bottoms. It’s a less suggestive position than her seeing them, hands clasped, but Tony takes a step back anyway.

“Doctor Mirza asked me to bring you something to get changed into,” she says brusquely. “Do you need assistance getting dressed?”

“No, thank you, ma’am,” Steve says politely. “I can manage.”

“As you like,” the nurse replies, hands Tony the thin, white one-size-fits-all-possibly-including-Hulk hospital bottoms, and stalks out of the room.

Tony fluffs out the pants. “Do you think these people know I pay their wages?” he asks.

“Be nice,” Steve replies.

Tony stoops to help guide Steve’s foot into the leg hole of the trousers.

“What’re you doing?” Steve asks, a frown puzzling over his face.

“Helping you get dressed,” Tony replies. He wiggles the waiting leg-hole purposefully.

Steve’s frown fades and is replaced by something altogether harder to place: hesitancy, mixed with tenderness and a tinge of self-consciousness. But he allows Tony to assist him when he delicately hops off the trolley, an arm draping around Tony’s shoulders to let the smaller man take some of his weight.

“Are you sure you’re okay to walk?” Tony asks as they shuffle towards the door.

“I’ll make it to the lift,” he says, teeth gritted.

“And into bed,” Tony reminds.

Steve casts a nervous glance down the empty corridor. “I don’t think I’ll be much use to you there tonight,” he says.

Tony snorts. “You think after all this I want to do anything other than collapse in a heap?”

To his credit, Steve raises an eyebrow at Tony.

“Well, yeah, all right,” Tony concedes. “But I have some restraint. You’re hurt.”

“I’ll heal,” Steve reminds gently.

“I know,” Tony sighs. They’re at the elevator now and he reaches out to press the call button. “But leave me to fuss. I’ll even let you be big spoon tonight so that I don’t accidentally knock your dressing.”

Steve’s fingers tighten on his shoulder and Tony sees the sheen in his eyes. The corridor grows a little blurry for Tony too, but he blinks it away as the elevator arrives and he helps Steve inside.

****

_The shrill noise of a ringing phone drags Tony out of a rather pleasant dream concerning the twin daughters of the ambassador from... where was it again? Oh yes, Moldova. He stretches lazily, turning the dream/memory over in his head. New countries are always so eager to please._

_When the ringing doesn’t stop, Tony picks himself up off the couch and stumbles out into the hall. His eyes are still blurry and boxers are slipping down. He hikes them up and scratches his ass._

_“Stark residence,” he says as he picks up the phone, mimicking the dripping English accent he's often heard Jarvis use._

_“Um, hello,” a female voice at the end of the line says. “I am looking to speak to Mr Anthony Stark.”_

_“It is quite late, Miss. I'm not sure if Master Stark is available. May I ask who's calling?”_

_“I'm calling from Suffolk County Central Hospital. I'm afraid there's been an accident.”_

_All the pretence falls away from Tony's voice. “What's happened?” he says._

_The caller fumbles. “Mr. Stark?”_

_“Yes,” Tony confirms brusquely. “What's wrong? Is it my parents?”_

_“Mr. Stark, I'm very sorry. Are you able to get to the hospital?”_

_“Yes,” Tony says._

_“Then I think it would be best if you made your way here as quickly as possible.”_

_Tony doesn't even thank the woman before he puts the phone down. His heart pounds as though it wants him to run away. Why did he say he could get there? He doesn't technically have a licence at the moment and it's not like he can use public transport. A cab will take too long to get all the way out to the mansion, especially this close to Christmas, and his parents have given the staff a few days off while they’re out of town._

_His parents._

_Tears mist his eyes. There has to be **something** he can do._

_Obi. Dad's friend Obi will know what to do._

_He reaches for the phone once more, his hand trembling so badly he can barely hold it, and dials the number for Obadiah Stane._

_~~~~_

_“Where are they?” Tony demands._

_“Mr Stark.” Realising who he is, the hospital administration has sent one of its senior consultants down to meet Tony on his arrival. “Please, I think it's best if we talk for a moment before... anything else.”_

_“Tony,” Obadiah says quietly, putting a hand to his shoulder. “Do what the doctor says.”_

_Tony goes to snap a response; stops himself by clenching his jaw. No matter what, Obi doesn't deserve to get chewed out. He’d been at the mansion almost before Tony could put the phone down, breaking god knows how many laws to get between his home and theirs so fast. He’d kept Tony calm on the journey, and didn't say any of the damn fool platitudes people so often do in these kinds of situations. Tony owes him civility, no matter what._

_“Okay doc,” Tony growls. There's an echo of his dad's authoritative tone in his voice and a detached part of his mind thinks the old man might just approve. “Talk.”_

_The consultant gestures him towards a plastic-upholstered chair. Tony looks at it, the dirt of a thousand grubby fingers is ingrained in the faux-leather. He shudders to think what collection of fluids this chair will have seen but, despite his distaste, he sits; because it's clearly the only way to move this on._

_The consultant runs a tongue over his thin, pale lips. “Their car ran off the road and hit a tree. There was no sign of another vehicle in the collision but the police are investigating regardless. Your parents were found by a truck driver who alerted the emergency services. Due to the severity of the injuries, they were brought here. Your father remains on life support...”_

_“And my mom?” Tony interrupts._

_The consultant's gaze flickers. It's barely there, but it tells Tony everything._

_He's only distantly aware of Obi's large, heavy hand on his shoulder. The deep voice saying 'I'm sorry, son.'_

_“I want to see her,” Tony says. He feels the workings of his own lips and tongue as though they are someone else's._

_“Tony,” Obi says softly._

_“I'll make the necessary arrangements,” the doctor says. His tone is sympathetic, but with that detached compassion that comes from dealing with someone else’s grief. “And I'm sorry to have to ask this at such a difficult time, but do you know if your father made a living will?”_

_The air leaves Tony, his throat constricting beyond his ability to form words._

_Obadiah steps forward. “Howard had a no extraordinary measures notice put in place a number of years back,” he says. “I'll call his lawyer and have him fax over the confirmation.”_

_The doctor nods, stands and leaves; his evident helplessness the barest shadow of what Tony feels._

_Obadiah crouches down in front of Tony, his broad face filling his vision._

_“You know what the doctor was saying, don't you Tony?” he asks calmly, voice so quiet that Tony has to give it his full attention._

_Tony is silent for a long time. He knows he should be crying; raging; _something_ , but he isn't. He can't. At last he speaks. _

_“I want to see my mom.”_

****

Tony shudders himself awake. In the silence, he swings his legs out of bed and takes a few gulped breaths of air, trying to fight the nightmare back into the dark and secret places of his mind.

He feels the bed behind him dip and sway and the rustle of cotton on skin. Steve nudges up to him, placing a large palm to the sweat-damp centre of his back, fingers gently stroking the fabric of the worn t-shirt he sleeps in.

“Hey,” Steve says, voice soft and sleep-thick. “You okay?”

“Just a... a dream,” he replies.

The bed moves again as Steve shuffles into a sitting position. He curls his hand round from the small of Tony’s back and pulls him closer, so Tony is leaning against his chest. Tony tries to hold himself upright, but slowly surrenders to the embrace and the warm tickle of Steve’s breath against his neck.

“It's nothing, I can handle it,” he sighs wearily.

“You don't have to do it alone,” Steve murmurs. “I'm here.”

Tony feels himself unravel, Steve's words and the soft, low noises he continues to make lulling him. He allows Steve to guide him back down to the mattress. Steve turns on his side, back towards Tony, and Tony recognises it for what it is: an offer. The solid breadth of Steve's shoulders; the long, graceful line of his spine, the swell of his ass: these are all now familiar shapes to Tony.

But it speaks of a different kind of intimacy, to an awareness that goes beyond the physical. Tony knows that their relative statures will lead people to make assumptions about their sleeping arrangements. But Steve understands that Tony draws comfort from providing comfort, that when he curls around the larger man's frame, it is to soothe himself as much as Steve. And Steve, whose whole life is spent being in command, relinquishes that control to Tony because he knows it's what his partner needs. Tony jokes, plays with the stereotypes of one of them needing to be 'the woman', but the truth is that what goes on in these precious spaces, the deep breaths that fall in between the fight, is no one's bloody business. 

This is _private_. 

He circles his arm around Steve's narrow waist, hand to his stomach, and the warmth of Steve’s skin sinking into his. 

This is _theirs_

“All right?” he asks quietly. 

Steve picks up the direction of his thoughts. “Yeah, doesn't even hurt now. It'll be completely healed by morning.”

A slight tremble passes through Tony's limbs, and they're too wrapped in each other for Steve not to notice. His only reaction however is to lean further back, press them closer and transfer more weight to Tony's embrace.

They lie in silence, but Tony can tell Steve’s awake. He finds his own chest rising and falling to the even rhythm of Steve’s breaths, his heart steadying, but sleep feels a long way off. He knows that Steve’s waiting, giving him the opportunity to speak if he wants to. And, strangely enough, he doesn’t find the idea quite as impossible as it always has been.

“I was dreaming about my parents,” he murmurs. “About the... night they died.”

“Howard was a good man,” Steve replies, his voice rumbles through Tony’s chest. “And I’m sorry I never met your mother. She must’ve been quite a woman to turn his head.”

“She was an oboist in the Philharmonic,” Tony says, a faint smile tightening his lips. “She played piano, too, but not for the orchestra. Dad schmoozed himself into the season’s closing night bash just to speak to her. Of course, she had no idea who he was and told him to take a hike.”

“I imagine he fell in love there and then,” Steve says, not quite chuckling.

Tony shrugs against his partner. “Pretty much.”

“He always liked a challenge. Like father, like son.”

“Go back a couple of years and I’d’ve taken issue with you for that,” Tony says, nudging Steve with his nose. “But, yeah. The more I learn about who my dad really was, the more I think I’m okay with it.”

“I’m glad,” Steve says. “Guy I knew deserved to be happy.”

Just a little pang of resentment sounds in Tony’s voice. “Sounds like the two of you had a real mutual appreciation society going.”

A wry laugh finally escapes Steve. “Oh, not completely. In fact, I thought he was after my girl for a while.”

A frown draws Tony’s brow down. “That’s very...” He thinks about the next word carefully. “Reassuring.”

Steve wriggles against him, finding - if that were possible - a position even more snug than before. It feels strange to talk to Steve about Howard; to know intellectually that the two of them had once been friends, but not be able to entirely reconcile that with the man now in his arms. And it isn’t just the whole ‘kept in ice’ thing that throws Tony, because just look around him: crazy is normal in his life. No, it’s the stories his father used to tell. The good Cap, the _great_ Cap; Steve Rogers, the guy who would ride into hell for his friends. This paragon of virtue, the hero who Tony dressed up as for four Halloween’s straight (tell no one), somehow sees enough goodness in him to share his bed. Hell, that’s wackier than getting frozen in a glacier for seventy years, having a drinking contest with a trans-dimensional God of Thunder, and Clint Barton forswearing ice-cream all in one.

He slowly strokes the skin of Steve’s stomach, a bare trail of fingertips running over warm flesh, and isn’t above marvelling at the contented sigh that passes his partner’s lips.

A clutch of intertwined emotion tightens in his throat. He swallows past it and begins again. “The call came in the middle of the night. I got to the hospital as fast as I could, but it was too late. Mom was gone. Dad... there was no coming back from it, not in any meaningful way. The police said that with the nature of the crash it was likely they never even knew what happened. But...”

“But?”

Tony licks his lips. “But I found the truck driver who called the accident in. He told me my dad had been muttering something. Something about the War; some experiments; soldiers.” He lets out a low groan. “I don’t know. Maybe I thought he might have said something about me: a message, some final words of wisdom. Something.”

“Tony,” Steve says, and his voice is low but filled with quiet command. “I knew your dad, and I’ve read about his legacy. And if there’s one thing I’m sure of, it’s that he was and would be proud of you.”

A slow, silent tear gathers in the corner of Tony’s eye and rolls along his nose. He manages to rub it on the pillow before it falls on Steve’s skin. 

“Everything I have, I owe to him. But I just... I wish I had something of my mom as well. A piece of her. When I was a kid, I took after her. With music, I mean. I was composing before I could write. Took to the piano like you to that shield of yours.”

“But you don’t play anymore?” Steve says, his voice low and guarded; as if guessing the answer.

“No,” Tony replies with a sigh. “My dad. He didn’t think music was a proper occupation for a man. For _his son_. At best, he saw it as a gateway to mathematics, and when I showed an aptitude for engineering...”

“He pushed you towards that instead.” Steve grumbles under his breath. “Dammit, Howard.”

“Hey,” Tony scolds; then presses his lips to Steve’s shoulder. “That’s my father you’re talking about.” He breaks from Steve abruptly, rolling himself out of the bed.

Steve whines at the sudden absence. “Where’re you going?” he asks, turning onto his back and blinking at Tony.

“Down to the workshop,” Tony replies, with a self-deprecating smile. “I need to tinker.”

“Want me to come with you?”

Tony leans back in and runs his fingers through Steve’s hair. “No. Metabolism like yours doesn’t run on fresh air, you need to sleep. And in the morning, I will make you _all_ the eggs.”

“What did I do to deserve a guy like you?” Steve mumbles, managing to make it sound only a little bit like it’s a complaint.

A half-smile ticks at Tony’s cheek. “Whatever it was, it’s best kept between you and your priest.”

Steve snorts, but turns back over onto his side of the bed, tugging the covers over his shoulder. Tony looks at him while he dons some working clothes, all frayed edges and spark-burned holes. He rides the elevator down to the basement garage and breathes in the familiar smell of motor oil. It’s quiet down there, peaceful. Even the robots are offline, charging themselves in the little side storage room they seem to have claimed as their own.

He stalks over to the main bench, waving at a diagnostics panel on the way. He looks down at the partially assembled device on the table, its parts closer to being a whole than ever before, but still looking like little more than a pair of oh-so-2014 smart glasses, but even more cost-prohibitive than the ‘leading brand’. It’s taken most of R&D and more than half a billion dollars to get it even this far; that is, to be able to plumb the depths of the hippocampus and integrate the neuronal impulses there into visual output. Run it through a holo-emitter, and you can get a fairly impressive three dimensional rendering. But it’s still just that: an image, a static memory. The guys and gals in the labs are calling it ‘revolutionary’, but being something so pedestrian as ‘revolutionary’ hasn’t got Tony where he is today.

Sometimes if you want a job doing right, you gotta do it yourself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Want to say hi? Do it on [Tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/opposablethumbs-on-AO3)!


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tony reveals the origins of the BARF, and the couch in the workshop proves very useful.

Chapter 5

The bed is cold when Steve wakes. His increased metabolism makes feeling cold a rare thing, but it’s still a sensation he doesn’t relish. But, this time at least, it has an easy fix. His stomach rumbles noisily. You need a lot of calories when your body functions at four times normal speed.

He sniffs. The bedroom smells of nothing; which is to say it smells of him and Tony, something so familiar as to defy his senses. What it definitely doesn’t smell of is breakfast.

“All the eggs, my eye,” he grumbles, rolling himself out of bed.

He wanders over to the kitchenette, finds a banana-flavoured protein shake in the fridge. He remembers reading a magazine when he was a kid, filled with pictures of ‘the house of tomorrow!’, ‘the car of tomorrow!’, and not least ‘the food of tomorrow!’ Even back then, some brainiac conceived of being able to drink an entire meal from a shake glass. Steve wonders, however, if they had imagined it’d taste so much like gym socks.

Still, he’s had worse. He’s lived off military rations. He even ate a cupcake that one time Thor tried to bake. He takes a deep draught, frowns, pulls the can back and scowls at it.

“For this we fought a war,” he grumbles. He finishes it in three quick swallows and a small shudder.

Stretching out his limbs, the tingle of warm blood once again infusing him, Steve begins to feel a little more human. Actually, that’s not completely accurate. What he’s feeling is _very_ human, and would be a lot more fun if Tony was here with him. He doesn’t have to call up a display to know where Tony is to be found, however. He pads in bare feet over to the elevator and hits the button for the basement.

****

When he steps out of the elevator, it’s straight out into a cave.

“What in the...”

An armed man runs past him or, more accurately, _through_ him, shouting in a language Steve doesn’t recognise. There’s the sound of an explosion but no heat or concussive force.

“...holy hell...”

Tony’s head pops up from behind a rock. Inexplicably, he’s wearing sunglasses and a grin. “Hey there.”

“Tony!” Steve yelps as another man levels a Kalashnikov on him and begins to bark incomprehensible orders in his direction. “What’s going on here?”

“Oh, this?” he says with a smile. “FRIDAY, end interface.”

“With pleasure, boss,” FRIDAY replies. Suddenly and without any warning, the entire cave disappears to be replaced by the relative calm of the workshop. The rock that Tony was crouched behind resolves into a tool trolley. The grin on Tony’s face widens and he pulls off his sunglasses.

“Results of BARF calibration test 14b: success,” he says.

Steve gestures around the room, not least at the sledgehammered holes in the walls with what look like modified interface projectors stuffed in them. “Care to explain the aggressive remodelling of our home?” he asks.

The pleased look in Tony’s eyes indicates there’s about to be an explanation.

“Oh, you mean my new doodad? Do you like it? It’s been sitting with R&D for the last six months. I decided it was time I stepped in.”

“And how long has it taken you to get it operational?” Steve asks.

Tony checks his watch. “Three and a half hours?” he suggests.

“You know,” Steve says, stepping cautiously across the once-more tiled floor, “that is exactly why people find you so frustrating.”

Tony shrugs. “Because once I set my mind on something, it gets done?” He tilts up his chin and Steve sighs before giving him a little good-morning peck.

“So what does it _do_?” Steve asks as he steps back.

Turning the glasses over in his hands, Tony purses his lips. “Well, basically it’s a device to artificially stimulate, read, and project memories directly from the brain of the wearer.”

“That’s so...”

“Boring?” Tony offers. He pulls his face. “Yeah. I mean, who wants to watch a scenario play out over and over again in the exact same way? Once. Maybe twice. After that you’re into Groundhog Day territory.”

Steve doesn’t comment on what is obviously a reference beyond his knowledge. “But that was one of your memories?” he asks. 

“Sort of,” Tony replies. A rueful smile ticks his cheek. “That was a particularly memorable little vacation as a prisoner of radicals.”

“But one of the men looked at me. Shouted at me.”

“And that’s the not-boring bit. I integrated stochastic algorithms into the programming. It takes the base memory and allows for restricted projection of behaviours to simulate an evolving scenario.”

“You mean, you can change the memory?”

Tony beams. “Within defined limits. The program has to work from the core memory, so if something is unreferenced, it can’t be included. But it can augment reality. Think of the applications. Coaching. Interactive product development. Even letting people review and work through traumatic experiences.”

“It sounds very advanced,” Steve says.

“Oh it is,” Tony agrees enthusiastically. “Way advanced of anything else in its field. I mean, that’s not really the lab-rats’ faults. I had access to data they...” He stops himself short and Steve narrows his eyes.

“What kind of data?” Steve asks suspiciously.

“Well...”

From the look on Tony’s face, Steve knows he isn’t going to like it. Has Tony lifted HYDRA research? Or maybe, if it’s so advanced, it’s something Thor let slip last time he came round for...

“No.” Steve says flatly.

“Steve, I swear, it isn’t as bad as it sounds.”

“You used Ultron tech to make your machine work and that’s not bad?”

“I just took some of the underlying predictive capabilities. There’s no intelligence there!”

“That’s not the point! Tony, you know what Ultron almost did to us. When will you learn you can’t just turn everything into a science-fair project?”

“Probably never,” Tony says. His voice is reasonable, and makes Steve catch his angry retort before it leaves his mouth. “Steve, I have to push the boundaries. That’s how we get progress.” He takes a pace closer and catches Steve’s hand. “But I know there have to be controls. I promise you, I _swear_ to you, that this tech is benign and there’s no risk of anything like Ultron coming out of it. But...” with his free hand Tony holds out the glasses, “if you want me to shut this down, I will.”

Steve looks at the glasses, and back to Tony’s face. He takes a deep breath. “No,” he says, “if you see potential, and you’re sure it’s safe, I trust you.”

Tony’s smile returns, but it’s a little softer. “Well, that’s good. Because there’s someone I wanted you to meet.” He puts the glasses back on, grimacing a little as a high-pitched electrical buzz begins to emanate from them. In the centre of the room, a little to their left, the image of a woman resolves. It’s clear, almost solid-looking. She’s an older woman, with a face that retains much of what would have been youthful beauty transformed into ageless grace. Her grey eyes sparkle, matching her hair, but her smile is warm and oddly familiar.

“Steven Rogers,” Tony says, “this is my mom.”

“I’m always pleased to meet one of Anthony’s friends,” the woman - Tony’s mother - says, stepping forward.

Tony leans in and quietly explains. “This is from the first time I brought Rhodey back to the mansion.”

“So she thinks I’m Rhodey?” Steve asks, eyes not leaving Mrs. Stark.

Tony taps his head. “No. I think of Rhodey, she sees you. Well, as much as a program sees things.”

FRIDAY clears her throat. “I see more than I want to sometimes,” she grumbles.

“Shush, FRIDAY,” Tony says. “Mom, I’ve told you. Steve’s more than just my friend.”

A small smile lights up Mrs. Stark’s face. “I know, dear. But in my day we were a little more discrete when talking about these things.”

“I couldn’t agree more,” Steve says.

“Of course you do,” Mrs. Stark replies. “Because you’re a polite young man. It’s good to see Tony have such a positive influence in his life.”

A little blush creeps into Steve’s cheeks. “You’re very kind, Mrs. Stark.”

“Oh, please. Call me Maria,” she replies. “I’d shake your hand but I believe that’s not an option.”

“I’m working on it, ma,” Tony says, a slight whine in his voice. Despite the surreal situation, Steve has to stifle a little laugh.

“Well, you two boys run along now,” Maria says. “I’m sure you have better things to do than stand around talking all day.”

Tony tips his head. “Thanks mom. Love you.”

“I love you too, sweetheart,” she says. She vanishes as Tony takes off the glasses.

Tony turns to Steve, fragile hope plain in his eyes. “That was my mom.”

“That was...”

“Creepy? Weird? Too much?” Tony suggests.

“Beautiful,” Steve replies. He takes Tony’s hands in his own and tugs him in for a kiss. “Thank you.”

Tony joins the embrace eagerly, pressing harder, deepening the kiss. He walks Steve backwards until they bump into something hard and cold. It’s just the workbench, but Steve startles for a moment.

Tony jumps back. “Shit. Did I hurt you?” he asks, voice tight with concern.

“What?” Steve replies with a frown. Realisation hits. “Oh my, uh, injury. No. All healed.” He offers Tony a reassuring smile.

Tony’s lips twitch. “You won’t mind if I check that for myself?”

“You add medicine to your list of degrees?” Steve teases.

With deliberate slowness, Tony strokes his hand over the swell of Steve’s backside. “Not yet,” he replies. “But I’d say I was eminently qualified when it comes to your ass.” He gives the flesh a firm squeeze.

Steve hasn’t forgotten his original purpose in coming down to the garage, and he wastes little time finding his way to Tony’s skin. He grazes his teeth over Tony’s collar, hears his partner hiss in appreciation.

“Couch or back up to bed?” Tony grunts, breathing hard against Steve’s ear.

“Couch,” Steve replies decisively. “It’s closer.”

Tony answers with a smirk, pulling Steve towards the piece of furniture in question.

****

Steve shifts sleepily, arms loosely looped around the warm and pliant form sprawled over him. “Mmm,” he hums.

“Mmhmm,” Tony rumbles, wriggling himself in closer.

“Hmm...” Steve sighs.

“Yeah,” Tony replies.

There’s a soft beep from one of the blacked-out monitors. “Are you two finished yet?” It’s FRIDAY’s lilting voice that comes through the speaker. “Only, I’m scared to look and it’s hard to tell from all the monosyllables.”

Tony grunts, lifting his head up off Steve’s chest. “I swear, I’m buying a Dayplanner. You don’t get so much backchat.”

“You’d last a week,” Steve grumbles.

Tony presses a kiss to the end of his nose. “A whole week? Aw, thanks, honey. You must really love me.”

FRIDAY makes a sound much like the clearing of one’s throat. “You know, I didn’t come down here for the good of my health,” she reminds them.

“You didn’t come down here at all,” Tony says with a tut. “You’re all around us. Like... Disney.”

“What is it, FRIDAY?” Steve prompts.

“You have a call,” FRIDAY replies.

“So take a message?” suggests Tony.

“Yeah... no,” says FRIDAY. Tony starts to protest but she speaks over him. “It’s coming through on that line you said I wasn’t to let you turn away.”

“Context, FRIDAY,” Tony says. “I don’t take calls naked.”

“So I put it through audio only.”

“You’re not going to win,” Steve says. “You programmed her to be more stubborn than you.”

Tony grumbles something incomprehensible, the only word of which Steve picks out is ‘genius’. “Fine,” huffs Tony grouchily. “Put it through.”

The voice transferred at the end of the line _“... arrogant son of a...”_

“Mister Secretary,” Tony interrupts smoothly. “Good morning.”

_“Good is a relative term, Stark.”_

Steve recognises the voice. “Ross?” he mouths. 

Tony nods, but presses his finger to Steve’s lips to keep him silent. “Well, you know Ross, adequate roughage in your diet can help with that.”

 _“This is not the time for jokes, Stark,”_ Ross barks. _“I have a major government sponsor screaming blue murder because one of his 270,000 barrel-a-day refineries went up in smoke thanks to your spandex-wearing pals. He’s demanding we pull the House back from recess to talk reparations.”_

_Tony’s lips twitch in both amusement and vague irritation. In an attempt to tip his expression more towards the former, Steve parts his lips and lets Tony’s quieting finger slip into his mouth. The way Tony’s eyes widen and his eyebrows shoot up is worth any awkwardness Steve might feel._

_The wobble in Tony’s voice is barely perceptible. “I’m sure they’re just milking it, looking to up the payout.”_

__“There’s half a state’s worth of fire services still trying to put out the blaze. We’re damn lucky the plant was running a skeleton shift. No one got hurt.”_ _

_Tony glowers down at Steve, but can’t quite conceal the shiver he gives as the man in question winds his tongue around his knuckle. “Point in fact, Ross,” he says, “Captain Rogers was hurt in the incident, attempting to apprehend the real culprits.”_

__“And the losses to the company will only be a fraction of the cost to the local economy, and the environmental clean-up...”_ _

_“He’s fine, by the way,” Tony interrupts. “Doctor ordered him off his feet for a couple of days.” A wicked glint flashes in his eyes. “Do you know how hard it is to get a super-soldier into bed?”_

_Steve nips at the pad of his finger. Tony jerks his hand back, shaking it and offering Steve a frown. Steve shrugs; smirks._

_In the background, Ross is talking again. _“I’m glad to hear he wasn’t more seriously injured, but the fact still remains...”__

_“Yeah, sorry to interrupt,” drawls Tony before Ross’s rant can pick up any steam, “but can I put you on hold for a moment? There’s a pressing matter I have to attend to.”_

__“Wha...”_ As if by magic, or at least by helpful personal electronic assistant, the line goes dead._

_Tony turns his attention back to Steve. “You’re a distracting little shit at times, Rogers. Anyone ever tell you that?”_

_“A long time ago,” Steve says with a smile that turns into a pout. “And getting me into bed wasn’t _that_ hard.”_

_Tony’s eyes narrow. “I beg to differ.” He leans in and kisses Steve, long and slow, the rhythm of the on-hold call beep acting as a pacemaker._

_Steve gives himself over to it for a moment, just letting them work together: bodies warm and close and easy. But, no matter how much of a grade-A jerk this Ross sounds, Steve knows they can’t keep him waiting forever. Not for this. He pulls back._

_“Go on,” he says._

_Tony rolls his eyes. “Okay, put him back on,” he says with a sigh. “Sorry about that, Ross. I thought I had something much bigger on my hands than I did.”_

_Steve pokes him in the side._

__“I’m sure you’re a busy man,”_ Ross says after a short pause, _“so I’ll just ask that you try and express to Captain Rogers that his actions have repercussions. Until now, these kinds of incidents have been tolerated because they brought in results. But, if that changes..._ He leaves the threat hanging._

_“I’ll make sure I pass it along,” Tony says, cutting the line. He turns an arched eyebrow on Steve. “So, a gas _canister _blew up?” he says.___

___“Well, yes,” Steve replies. “At first.”_ _ _

___“Uh-huh.” Levering himself up off the sofa, Tony begins to sort their shed clothing into size-appropriate piles._ _ _

___Steve immediately misses the press of his weight; all the places their skin touched, but his mind is quickly back on the mission. The situation at the refinery flashed up on their radar because it bore all the marks of HYDRA: their tactics, their weapons, even operating on their old comm channels. But why would HYDRA hit an oil refinery? It didn’t feel right. There was something too blatant in how the team they found there operated, something wanton to their destruction. It was as though the refinery was a means, rather than the end. And their leader, a masked man in a heavy tac vest: there was something in the way he moved that seemed... familiar._ _ _

___An idea comes to him. “Hey, Tony?”_ _ _

___Tony is slipping into his jeans, balanced on one leg. “Mmhmm?”_ _ _

___“That memory device of yours, would it work on someone else?”_ _ _

___A small frown puckers Tony’s brow. “Well, it’d have to be recalibrated to their neuro-electrical matrix, but sure, yeah.”_ _ _

___“And how long would it take to recalibrate it to my... mind?”_ _ _

___“Well, we have your scans on record, and live biometrics...”_ _ _

___“So..?”_ _ _

___“FRIDAY? How long to modify the glasses for Steve?”_ _ _

___“Three, maybe four, minutes?” FRIDAY suggests. “Your brains aren’t all that different, you know.”_ _ _

___“Except I’m a genius.”_ _ _

___“Whatever you say, boss.”_ _ _

___Steve dresses back into his pyjama bottoms. It feels better not to have the bulky dressing rubbing against the fabric, the area now being declared as one hundred percent back to normal after a thorough examination by Tony._ _ _

___A monitor beeps. “There you go. All done,” FRIDAY states._ _ _

___Tony glances over. “That wasn’t three minutes.”_ _ _

___“Ah, you know. Under-promise to over-deliver.”_ _ _

___“Damned annoying is what it is.”_ _ _

___Steve clears his throat. “She is _your_ programme.”_ _ _

___It earns him a pout, but Tony sashays over to him and slides the glasses onto his face, tucking them behind his ears._ _ _

___“So what do I do?”_ _ _

___“Well, first you turn it on.” Tony tips up and taps the side of the glasses. “But I’ve got to tell you, it’s not going be like it was with my mom. That was an amalgam of multiple reference points. This will be more like watching a film in 3D. But, you know... less disappointing.”_ _ _

___A strange sensation floods Steve’s head, like a low-pitched noise descending beyond the scope of sound vibrating through his skull. He grimaces. “There’s some kind of... feedback.”_ _ _

___“Yeah, it’s caused by the electromagnetic hyperstimulation of your entorhinal cortex. We think it’s completely harmless.”_ _ _

___“You _think_?”_ _ _

___Tony shrugs._ _ _

___“Okay,” Steve says with a sigh, “so what do I do now?”_ _ _

___“Concentrate on the memory you want to project. The device will do all the work.”_ _ _

___Steve thinks, thinks about the fight at the refinery. He thinks real hard about it. He only realises he’s closed his eyes when Tony pipes up._ _ _

___“You know, I think Widow’s neckline plunges a bit lower than that.”_ _ _

___Steve’s eyes fly open. Surrounding him and Tony is a perfect tableau of the mission to Nevada, a frozen moment from the middle of the fight. Widow has a man on the ground, about to deliver a punch. Wanda is caught casting, a trail of spectral magic tangling its way from her hands to another opponent. Rhodey and Sam are mid-flight, suspended in the air above them. Rhodey has a goon dangling by a foot. Slightly disconcertingly, Steve himself is projected: shield mid-arc to connect with a guy’s, jaw, body braced for the blow._ _ _

___“Why am I here... and here?” Steve asks._ _ _

___“It does that sometimes,” Tony replies._ _ _

___“And why isn’t it moving?”_ _ _

___“Limited scope of imagination?”_ _ _

___“Hey!”_ _ _

___Tony has the decency to look a little chagrined. “It took me a few goes to get the hang of it. Just think of what happened, don’t try to force images into your mind.”_ _ _

___Steve takes a few deep breaths and tries to do as Tony suggests. His mind has always worked in visuals, however, so it’s no easy task. Suddenly, the tableau begins to flow, like a flipbook cartoon: jagged at first but growing faster as they speed up._ _ _

___“Okay,” Tony says. “What are we looking at?”_ _ _

___Suddenly, holographic Steve runs at a point behind them. They both turn to follow his progress._ _ _

___“Well, I know what I’m looking at now,” Tony leers._ _ _

___Steve huffs. “Focus.”_ _ _

___“Then don’t remember yourself wearing such tight pants.”_ _ _

___The holographic Steve pulls his shield from his back-straps. “Stop right there!” he calls. The address is made towards the leader of the goon-squad, standing with one foot on the footplate of an unmarked helicopter. The man turns, revealing the cross-shape daubed in white paint over his body armour. He stretches out his arm. In his hand, he has some kind of wireless trigger. He throws a parody of a salute at Steve, and then presses the button._ _ _

___A bank of gas cylinders behind the holographic Steve explodes. There’s noise but no heat, but Steve himself is unexpectedly hurled onto his back. It’s not a product of the simulation, however. There appears to be a Tony flung over him, covering him from the non-existent blast._ _ _

___Tony clears his throat, pushing himself up on his hands. “Sorry, force of habit,” he says. As he helps them to their feet, Steve pretends not to notice the tremble in the other man’s hand._ _ _

___Around them, the projection is flickering on and off. Holographic Steve is lying on the floor, dazed; the memories hazy. The unsteady image of the masked man climbs aboard the helicopter. As the bird begins to lift, he leans back out of the door._ _ _

___Steve narrows his eyes. This is what he wanted to see; the thing that’s been bugging him._ _ _

___“This _is_ personal,” the masked man shouts over the noise of the rotor._ _ _

___Bingo._ _ _

___“Tony, can you stop it there?” Steve asks._ _ _

___“FRIDAY,” Tony replies, “capture and hold the image.”_ _ _

___The projection freezes once more. Steve steps over his own prone form and walks up to the ground beneath the helicopter. He cranes his neck, staring up at the masked man._ _ _

___“Personal,” he echoes._ _ _

___The sloppy, disrespectful salute; the guy’s build, the way he moved, how he favoured his left leg to kick with. His voice... that voice..._ _ _

___“Rumlow,” Steve gasps._ _ _

___“Huh?”_ _ _

___Steve pulls off the glasses. His temple throbs. “Brock Rumlow. He was one of HYDRA’s plants in SHIELD.”_ _ _

___Tony pulls his face. “Seriously, SHIELD had guys in masks _and_ monocles, and no one realised they were rolling dirty?” _ _ _

___“Well, the mask is new,” Steve replies. “But it’s him.”_ _ _

___“So what would some ex-SHIELD, HYDRA fanboy hope to gain from blowing up a refinery in the middle of the desert?”_ _ _

___Steve purses his lips, thinks for a moment. “Me,” he says at last. “The refinery wasn’t important. As far as we could tell, they didn’t even extract anything from it. The only thing that makes sense is that he wanted me to be there, and to know _he_ was there, too.”_ _ _

___“Sounds like he’s pretty pissed at you.”_ _ _

___“He was inside the Triskellion when the ships came down on it. As far as anyone knew, he’d died.”_ _ _

___“People come back from the dead a lot around you, don’t they?”_ _ _

___Steve turns a frown on Tony. “This isn’t a joke,” he says. “Brock Rumlow was a level 7 agent. He knows a lot of things someone working for HYDRA shouldn’t.”_ _ _

___Tony sighs. “I know. And I’ll do my best to smooth things over with Ross, get him to see that this intel is worth more than a payout to some fatcat oil baron.”_ _ _

___“And I’ll start tracking down Rumlow,” Steve says. He turns to one of the monitors, logs in to the network. “Now he’s let me know he’s out there, I doubt he’ll be satisfied with hitting low-payoff targets. We should be prepared for a re-escalation in Avenger-level hostilities.”_ _ _

___He feels Tony press up behind him and slip his arms around his waist. It’s like the embrace they share most nights in bed but, offset by the height difference, they do not fit as snugly here as they do there. “You know how I told you to be careful?” Tony says, resting his cheek against Steve’s shoulder. “I need you to be more careful.”_ _ _

___Steve leans in to Tony. “I’ll try. And you watch yourself around Ross.”_ _ _

___“Always do,” Tony promises._ _ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not to beg for interaction*, but I'd love to know your thoughts so far. Comments are welcome, and my [Tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/opposablethumbs-on-AO3) is open for messages or asks if you'd like a more private forum. Full disclosure: I squee profusely.
> 
> (*I know I'm totally begging for interaction, but let me pretend, okay?)


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm gonna keep saying it, because it's true: Ross is an ass. Plus Steve and Tony make a pretty big decision, and Thor (thankfully) doesn't bake.

Tony checks his mobile for the umpteenth time in the last hour. He drums his fingers in the glass conference table. He checks his mobile again.

“Mr. Stark,” says Secretary Ross sternly. “I allowed you to keep your cell phone as a courtesy, as a gesture of good faith. But if you look at it one more time, I promise you I will have Ian take it and see it crushed.”

Tony purses his lips, but slips the device into the inside pocket of his suit jacket. He taps his fingers against the glass once more.

“And if you continue to do that,” Ross growls, “you don’t want to know what I’ll crush.”

Tony looks up, forces a smile on his face. “I thought the U.S. Army didn’t condone torture any more.”

Ross grunts, not quite a laugh. “I’m retired.”

Suddenly, Tony’s jacket begins to vibrate. He jumps half-way out of his chair, scrambling for his phone. He answers, crushes the cell against his ear. “Did you get him?” he asks, before the caller can speak.

“Negative,” Steve replies. “Slippery son of a gun got away again.”

Ross looks over at Tony, eyebrows lifted. Tony shakes his head. Ross’s brow folds in on itself. He slaps his hands down on the table, gets out of his chair and begins to pace.

Tony runs his tongue over his lips. “Any casualties?”

“Zero civilian, three enemy, zero team,” Steve reports. His voice softens, drops to a more intimate pitch. “We’re fine, Tony. Nothing but some lumps and bumps.”

Tony exhales slowly. “Full debrief back at the compound,” he says.

“I’ll need a shower first,” Steve replies. “And probably after knowing your debriefings.”

“Mmhmm,” Tony says, his lips pressed tightly together to conceal his smug smirk. He hangs up and locks his phone back down.

“Four months,” Ross says, his mouth set in a hard line. “That’s how long they’ve been trying to bring this guy down.”

“The same amount of time the CIA has been trying, and only my guy... guys...” Tony hastily corrects, “have even come near. We’re on the back-foot with this one. Reacting. We can scramble fast, but even The Avengers can’t be everywhere at once.”

Ross’s eyes narrow, the lines around them deepening into harsh grooves. He holds up his hand, fingers parted. “A bank in Florence, a military compound in Algiers, an arms dealer in Turkmenistan, and now a medical research facility in Seattle.” He ticks off his fingers as he lists Rumlow and his band of goons’ most recent targets. “All hit hard and fast, each one more destructive than the last. We have to catch him, Stark.”

“Oh, well, now you’ve said it...”

Ross shoots him a dirty look. “Sarcasm is the lowest form of wit,” he says.

“Funny,” says Tony, “my dad thought it was a metric for potential.”  
“He would’ve,” Ross replies. “He was a wiseass as well.”

Tony gets to his feet. “Well, as lovely as it has been playing armchair quarterback with you, I really should be getting back to the facility.” He smiles at Ross, his best paparazzi smile. “So, if you wouldn’t mind calling in your little watchdog...” He glances up at the concealed camera in the ceiling.

Ross returns his smile, but it’s without any warmth. Instead of the now-familiar gesture he usually gives to tell Ian/Chuckles to come do as he’s told, he instead makes a short, chopping gesture across his throat. Then he walks to one of the control panels, clicks some buttons, swipes his ID card and turns back to Tony.

“The room is now on lock-down. No AV in or out until I rekey my password.”

Tony clears his throat slightly. “If some thugs are about to burst in and out a black sack over my head, it’s only fair to warn you I don’t respond well in those kinds of situations.”

“Oh, Tony,” Ross replies, his voice dripping with patronising disappointment, “haven’t I proven yet that we’re _friends_?”

Tony makes a show of thinking about that. “Uh, no, actually,” he says. “You’ve proven that I’m someone you need and therefore tolerate.”

Ross sighs. “As you like.” He pulls open one of the under-desk file cabinets and pulls out a thick folder. It’s marked ‘Property of State Department’. He slides it across the table to Tony.

“What’s this?” Tony asks.

“Open it.”

Tony flips open the folder. Inside, there’s a single document. The front page bears its title: ‘Sokovia Accords. Draft. Not for circulation.’

Ross comes to stand behind him. “The treaty you’re reading now is due to go before the UN in a matter of weeks. It proposes that the US based, independent task-force known as the Avengers should come under the jurisdiction of all members states, reporting directly to the assembly. It would remove any accusations of extra-judicial activity or unauthorised collateral. The Avengers would operate only where and when sanctioned. It’s the start of a new day in global peacekeeping co-operation.”

Tony swallows, flicking through the pages of the document. There’s too much to take in here and now, but a few things do stand-out. The words ‘accountability, responsibility and prosecutability’ all feature heavily, as does the clause that states all advanced technology used by the members of the squad remain the property of the US government.

“Well, obviously we won’t agree to this,” he says, turning in his seat.

“I don’t remember asking whether you would,” Ross replies. “But if the accord is ratified by at least fifty percent of the assembly - that’s 96 countries world-wide, Tony - you would have no choice but to comply or disband.”

“We’ve managed so far without political oversight.”

“That’s because the government has so far been protecting you from the fallout.”

“You tell that to my bank balance.”

Ross doesn’t even try to smile. “There is more than money at stake here. That we know of, 153 bystanders have died due to the direct actions of the Avengers. By US law, that would put each of you behind bars for the best part of a millennium. And that’s assuming none of you were extradited to countries that have the death penalty...”

“So, we spent the last four years risking our lives and saving your asses, and now you’re _threatening_ us?” 

“Of course not,” Ross purrs. “That’s why I’m sharing this with you now. As it stands, the Accords might not pass. But all it will take is one mission gone wrong and member countries will be climbing over each other to sign. It’s better that you get on-board now.” He licks his lips, a curling look of satisfaction on them. “It’s only a matter of time before someone makes a mistake.”

A tight ball forms in Tony’s stomach. He gets to his feet, movements slow and deliberate. “If that’s everything?”

“Actually,” Ross drawls. “There is one more thing.” A thin smile creeping onto his face. “How long have you and Rogers been sleeping together?”

The accusation lands like a blow, straight to Tony’s already bunched gut. “Wh... what?” he asks.

Ross shrugs. “I’ve seen how you get when he and his team are on a mission.”

Tony clenches his jaw. “They’re up against some of the most dangerous criminals in the world. Of course I worry.”

“Mmmhmm,” Ross hums. “And I might accept that if it was the whole team you were concerned for. But it’s not, is it? It’s _him_.” Ross’s nose scrunches in distaste.

“And that immediately means we’re in a relationship? Couldn’t we just be two buddies who’ve faced down the odds together and won?”

“You could,” Ross agrees. “But you’re not.”

It isn’t even a question. The certainty in his voice brooks no dispute. _Laugh it off_ Tony’s mind tells him. But he can’t, the one-two of the UN proposal followed by this has taken even him past the point of practiced indifference.

Ross presses on with a predator’s glee. “Do you think I spent forty years in the army without being able to smell this kind of thing a mile off?”

“Fine, yes,” Tony snaps, his voice thin and toneless. “So we’re together. This isn’t 2002. No laws are being broken.”

Ross smiles, teeth bared. “No, of course not,” he says. “I keep telling you, Tony. I’m your friend. All I want is what’s best for you.”

He crosses to the control panel, releases the lock down. He turns to the ceiling camera and nods. A few seconds later, Chuckles appears in the doorway.

Tony buttons his jacket, runs his hands over it to smooth out the creases. “Well, as I said before, it was just _lovely_ spending time with you Mr. Secretary. Let’s do it again sometime. How’s 2019 looking for you?”

Ross picks up the folder holding the draft accord. “Don’t forget this,” he says.

“Really?” Tony says, clenching his jaw as he takes the folder from Ross. “Paper format?”

“We’ve found that paper is less of a security risk than electronic communications. So much harder to intercept. So much easier to deny.”

Tony look up, meeting Ross’s smug gaze square on. “Goodbye, Ross,” he says.

“Sir,” Ross reminds.

****

“FRIDAY?”

“Yeah boss?”

“I need you to do a thing for me.”

“That’s not unusual.”

“When we get back to the compound, I need you to scan this document in to my private server.”

“Your private server, or your _private_ private server?”

“Second option. I want this for my eyes only.”

“Keeping secrets again, boss?”

“Being careful.”

“Because that’s worked out well for you so far.”

“Shut up and drive, FRIDAY.”

****

“So,” Tony says as the showered and changed Avengers shuffle in to the rec room, “what lessons have we learned today, kids?”

Steve crosses to where Tony is rearranging the contents of the kitchen cupboard (seriously, who just throws food into a cupboard without sorting it first? What is this, college?). He lifts his chin, wondering if Steve will take the hint, but from the deep furrows channelling his companion's brow down he guesses that a public show of affection is unlikely. He's not wrong. 

“Rumlow set a diversion,” Steve says, tone deep and serious. “Locked three lab technicians in one of the isolation rooms with some kind of timed device. I made the call to go after the civilians and let him walk.”

“Device was a dummy,” Nat chimes in, grabbing an apple on her way to the couch.

“Steve's pretty pissed about it,” Sam adds helpfully.

Steve scowls at him.

“What?” Sam says. “You said it. Those exact words.” he offers Steve a wide and toothsome grin, and Nat nudges him in the side.

A little mottling of pink rises in Steve's cheeks. Even so, some of the rigidity seeps out of his spine. “Heat of battle,” he excuses, a small, self aware smile twitching one side of his mouth.

Tony nods in Rhodey's direction. “Anyone fancy telling me how the guy in the full metal jacket gets a black eye?”

The shiner purpling Rhodey's cheekbone is just starting to blossom fully. It looks painful but certainly not life-threatening.

Rhodey shrugs. “One of the HYDRA guys landed a punch while I had the visor up.” He makes a 'gimme' gesture at Tony and Tony rolls his eyes before turning to the fridge, liberating a beer and putting it down on the counter for Rhodes to take. 

“Yeah,” he drawls as Rhodey saunters off to find himself a seat. “That's kind of my point. Why was your visor up?”

Rhodey opens his mouth to answer but Wanda speaks in his place. She's only started talking directly to Tony in the last few weeks and the strange lilting of her accent is still unfamiliar to his ears. “He was cracking wise,” she says dryly. “I wonder where he has learned that from.”

Sam snorts and Rhodey tries to hide his smirk behind his beer bottle. Even Natasha looks perilously close to cracking a smile.

“Oh, this is funny to you?” Tony snaps. He slams a can of Borlotti beans down on the counter a little more firmly than he intended. “So it’s what? A little war wound to show off to your buddies round the campfire?”

Rhodey’s expression darkens, his eyebrows gathering into a deep-set line.

Tony feels fingers on his own, gently prising a second can free of his grip. He almost, _almost_ snatches his hand away from the touch, but when he follows the arm up to look into Steve’s blue eyes, he manages to suppress the instinct.

“Hey,” Steve says softly. “There’s no lasting damage. And next time, he’ll be more careful. Right?”

The vague sound that comes from Rhodey’s direction is - if he has any damn sense left in that rattled-about head of his - one of muttered assent.

From the far side of the rec room, Vision joins the conversation. “Indeed. Our injury to engagement ratio is in fact much lower than typical front-line units.”

It is precisely the wrong thing to say, and a flicker of frustration crosses even Steve’s face. Tony turns on The Vision, intent on explaining the concept of sleeping dogs, but the words fail to come as he focuses on the android. Instead of the usual leotard and cape ensemble, Vision is dressed in a jumper and slacks. This being, born of the purest fusion of biology and technology, looks like a model for Target’s Spring-Summer range.

Tony blames Miss Sparkle-fingers over there.

Natasha finishes her apple and tucks her knees up under her chin. She scoops up the remote and flicks on the TV set. 

It’s the tail end of a news report. There’s a young guy in a white lab coat being interviewed by the roving reporter. His dark brown eyes are rimmed pink as he stares into the camera.

“...thought I wouldn’t live to see my kid’s first birthday, so I just want to say ‘thank you’ to all the Avengers...”

The atmosphere in the room immediately changes. Tony slides his fingers so they weave between Steve’s. “And that’s why you made the right call,” he says quietly. He leads Steve over to the last remaining couch, letting the larger man sit first and then collecting himself into Steve’s side. Without even needing persuading, Steve loops his arm over Tony’s shoulder to allow him to move closer.

Just for a moment, Tony allows himself to forget everything but how damn lucky he is.

****

“Hey, you okay?” Steve sidles up beside Tony as he gets changed for bed. His fingers trace a ticklish trail down his flank. “You seemed tense tonight.”

Tony takes a small step, breaking the touch but covering it by slipping a sleeping tee over his head. “Guess I’m still getting used to sitting on my hands while you and the team are out on a mission,” he says.

“Just because you’re non-combatant doesn’t mean you’re not part of the team, Tony,” Steve reminds, a slight tone of reproach in his voice.

“Oh yeah, I felt really useful babysitting Ross while you guys got punched in the face.”

“Only Rhodes got punched in the face.” Steve tries for a smile and Tony can’t help but oblige, albeit weakly. Steve moves closer again, this time placing both hands on Tony’s hips, thumbs pressed to the bumps of his pelvis. The larger man knows what he’s doing: this thing has been a thing long enough for them both to know each other’s weak spots. For Tony it’s his hips and the crook of his waist. In Steve’s case, it’s the nape of his neck and the back of his knees.

“This isn’t about the mission, is it?” Steve says.

Tony sighs. At least he waited until they were alone to ask the obvious question. “No,” he says. He lets out a long breath. “It’s Ross. He knows.”

Steve frowns, confused. “Knows what?”

Tony gestures vaguely at the grip of Steve’s hands, the way that - somehow - the space between them has melted away and they press together. “This,” he says. “Us.”

He feels the slight flutter in Steve’s hand, sees the disquiet hiding behind his eyes. Tony braces for the recriminations. The ‘we agreed to keep this quiet’. The ‘maybe we need to back off until this blows over’. He feels the loss already building in his chest.

Steve lifts his chin, jaw set. “So what?” he says. “Tony, if I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a thousand times. I’m not ashamed. In my day, these things had to be kept in the dark because it was illegal. You think it sticks in my craw any less now that it’s just ‘politically inconvenient’?

Tony hears his own words echo in Steve’s. “He’ll use it against us.”

Steve shakes his head. “He won’t. Or at least not overtly. He’s a politician now, and that’s a whole can of worms he won’t want opening in public.”

“I guess,” Tony says, he leans in to Steve a little further. “You know, you’re not bad at this. You feel like switching out sometimes? I’ll go run missions, you go try not to throttle government officials?”

Steve laughs. “Not a hope. I’ll take my chances with Rumlow. At least I’m allowed to punch him.”

Even though it’s a joke, Tony can’t help but stiffen. The unwelcome sting of tears prickles behind his eyelids as he squeezes them closed.

“Hey,” he hears Steve say, and then strong arms gather him in. “Tony, what’s wrong? This is more than Rhodey getting hurt, or Ross being a jackass.”

Tony releases a long, shaky breath, opening his eyes. “When Rumlow first showed up,” he says, “it was the same day as my parents died, back in ‘91. I’m no good with dates, but that one...” He taps his temple. “And when Nat put in the call to say you were hurt, all I could think was: ‘not today’.”

The compassion on Steve’s face almost forces the tears to fall. His voice is thick when he speaks. “I didn’t know.”

Tony shakes his head. “It isn’t the damn date. It’s the feeling. Just... helpless. With my parents, I know there was nothing I could’ve done. It was just an accident. But with you, and the team...” 

“Tony,” Steve says softly. “You are doing something. You’re the Avenger’s voice on the Hill and, more than that, you’re the one I trust to do the right thing. Just because you’re not flying into the fire doesn’t mean you’re not protecting us.”

Tony takes a deep breath. “I wonder sometimes if I’m more scared of putting the suit back on or never putting it on again.”

In the low light of Steve’s bedroom, Tony sees understanding settle in the other man’s eyes. But there’s guilt there too, perhaps reflected from Tony’s own gaze. After all, Steve picked up his mantle not out of a desire for greatness, but out of necessity. And until that need is no more, it’s hard to imagine him letting that shield fall; of anyone wielding the responsibility but him.

“I don’t know,” Steve says, barely more than a whisper. “But maybe it’s the kind of thing you figure out with your boyfriend.”

Tony sniffs and, despite himself, a chuckle sound in his throat. “Did you just say ‘boyfriend’?” he asks.

Steve steps back and scratches the end of his nose. “Just... trying it out.”

“And how’d it feel?”

A little blush darkens Steve’s cheeks. “Kinda weird,” he admits. “I mean, I’m 97. I think calling me a ‘boy’ went out with Franklin D.” He holds out his hand, and Tony takes the offer; allowing himself to be led to bed. They climb into the big king-size and the lights lower to a dim glow. Steve turns on his side and Tony slides into his customary place behind him.

“You know,” Steve says, as the lights extinguish. “We always sleep here, never in your room.”

Tony shrugs. “I like it here,” he says, lips moving against the skin of Steve’s shoulder blade.

“I’m not complaining. I’m just saying... there’s not a lot of _your_ stuff here.”

“I’ve got pants, my toothbrush, clean shirts...”

“You’re going to make me spell it out, aren’t you?”

“Hmm?” Tony asks innocently.

He feels Steve huff, fondness and exasperation in it. “Tony, do you want to move in with me?”

Tony lets the pause go on long enough for Steve to wriggle against him. “Mmm,” he says at last, “you know technically this whole building’s mine, right?”

“Don’t be a jerk,” Steve scolds.

“You’d be disappointed if I was any other way,” Tony says, pressing a kiss to the base of his neck.

“Probably,” Steve agrees, leaning back into it. “So?”

Tony hums indecisively against Steve’s warm skin. “I dunno, I’ll need some time to think about it.”

“Who do you think you’re kidding, Mr. Stark?” Steve chuckles, gentling mocking. “You’ve already made up your mind.”

Tony sighs, then snakes his arm around Steve’s chest and pulls him close. “You know me so well,” he murmurs into Steve’s ear.

They settle down together in... well, in _their_ bed. Tony listens to Steve’s breathing slow. Today was kind of crappy, but the latter half definitely sucked less than the first. He closes his eyes.

And tomorrow he gets to move in with his boyfriend.

Huh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not too proud to admit that your lovely comments and kudos are keeping me going through a crappy week. So, you know, don't be shy.
> 
> If AO3 is all a little open to the world, I'd love to hear from you on my [Tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/opposablethumbs-on-AO3) messages.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint hangs up his quiver and Vision may or may not have a schlong.
> 
> Also, Steve makes an important (dubious) decision, and Tony moves in.

Steve waits, until Tony’s breathing evens out and a little not-quite-snore starts to rumble in his chest, before letting his own breathing slip back into a shallower pattern. 

Steve turns what Tony said over in his mind; one part in particular. The date Tony gave for Howard’s death.

_The 16th December, 1991._

It had felt familiar, a unpleasant wrenching of memory. But it wasn’t quite right, the memory and the words don’t tie up. He imagines how he might have heard it... 

_December 16, 1991._

or read it..?

_12-16-91._

And then he knows. That date, that set of numbers: they had appeared in the Winter Soldier dossier.

Steve clenches his jaw, his teeth audibly grinding together. He wants to believe it’s a coincidence, that Bucky had been half a world away, staring down his scope at some European dignitary. But even just thinking it, Steve knows it’s a hollow hope. Howard Stark, founder member of SHIELD, would have been a prime target for Hydra. Zola had even hinted at a role in his death, and now it makes a terrible kind of sense. Those Hydra bastards would have known Bucky and Howard shared a history. Using him in that way is exactly the kind of sick and twisted...

Steve forces himself to take a breath, quelling his anger before it can overwhelm him. He waits for a few more minutes, and then carefully extracts himself from beneath Tony’s draped arm. Moving as quietly as he can, he crosses to his closet and extracts the dossier from within its box. He carries it from the bedroom and into the lounge, risking turning on the small reading light next to the chair. Flipping the folder open, he runs his finger down the long, bloody ledger.

And there it is. 12-16-91, and a red cross: mission accomplished.

A wave of nausea threatens to overwhelm him. His fist clenches and he fights against slamming it into something. Damn them. Seventy years after he’d given everything to put their plans to rest beneath the frozen waters of the North Atlantic, HYDRA is still hurting him and the people he holds most dear. 

Rumlow is right. This is _absolutely_ personal.

Steve glances back towards the bedroom, listens to the soft cotton rustle of Tony turning in his sleep.

How is he supposed to tell Tony that his parents’ deaths were not only not an accident, but had come at the hands of the man who had been, and cannot help but be, Steve’s best friend?

 _Should_ he tell him?

It seems disloyal to even think it, but then - what good can come of dragging something like this into the light? Howard and his wife are dead. The creation, The Soldier, who committed the act is, for all intents and purposes, _dead_. Tony is slowly; finally facing his loss and Steve wants to help him with that, not just find another place for him to deflect that vulnerability and anger.

Not telling him isn’t lying, it’s kindness.

You could even call it love.

He closes the dossier, returns it to the box and goes back to bed.

****

Steve looks about the not-very-much-changed bedroom. “Is that it?”

Tony shrugs, that flippant little action he makes when he’s trying to prove how indifferent he absolutely isn’t.

Leaving the majority of his suits in that floor’s dressing room, the only items Tony has brought from his suite to Steve’s is the bureau that belonged to Howard and a couple of framed photographs.

“It’s not like I’m moving across town. Most of my gear is either in the garage or here.”

“You’re a multi-billionaire and you’re telling me that all you own is some tools and a handful of furniture?”

Tony shrugs again. It’s even less convincing than the first time. “Everything that matters.”

It’s the answer to the question no-one has dared to ask, at least not aloud. What is someone ‘like him’ doing with someone ‘like Tony’? 

An old bureau and some family photos.

Steve smiles and, from the feel of the play of muscles, he knows it’s the kind of smile that Sam would rib him for if he were here, calling him a _damn sap_.

Okay, so he is a bit sappy.

But Sam isn’t here: Natasha has the team out on impromptu covert ops training. Steve has the feeling that the timing is no accident, but he’s prepared to let it slide just this once. Having this wing empty while they make the changes to their living arrangements makes it feel more intimate, more just _theirs_. It also saves on the inevitable quips and snipes that comes with too many cooks. They can save the world together, sure, but moving furniture is a challenge for even the strongest friendships. When Steve had finally given up protesting he was fine on his own and moved in with Buck, they’d argued so fiercely the downstairs neighbour banged on his ceiling. It had all been about which way Steve’s twin bed would face in the tiny bedroom, with Bucky solving it by throwing the headboard out the window.

A cold shudder sweeps through Steve at the thought of Bucky. He’d almost convinced himself that last night’s discovery was just a bad dream, brushed away by the bright, crisp day and the look of excitement on Tony’s sleep-crinkled face.

He pushes the guilt down. He’s made the call, and it’s the right one.

Coming up behind Tony, he circles an arm about his waist and drops his chin onto the shorter man’s shoulder. He looks over it to the top of the bureau and the photographs on it. There’s the picture of Tony in his woggle, another of his graduation from MIT. The third is black and white, showing Howard and Maria; young together.

“Like it?” Tony asks. “I had FRIDAY pull it out of the archives.”

“It’s a good photo. They look happy.”

“Yeah.” Tony briefly strokes the glass covering the image. “Dad was a pain in the ass, and mom had her music, but they were. They loved each other. I don’t think when you’re a kid you really understand that. Maybe you can’t, not until...” Tony’s voice trails off.

Steve tightens his hold. “I get it.”

_“Is everyone in there wearing pants?”_

Steve jumps and feels Tony do much the same. They spring apart like kids caught stealing cookies and spin around. Stood in the doorway is Clint, hands over his eyes and a smirk on his lips.

“If I say no, will you leave?” Tony replies.

Steve elbows him, but Tony is grinning.

“Missed you too, buddy,” Clint says, dropping his hands.

Steve walks over, Clint meets him on the way. They shake hands. “Good to see you, Clint,” Steve says.

“Likewise, Cap,” Clint replies with a smile. “Can’t believe it’s been almost a year.”

“Bet your boy’s getting big,” Steve says.

“He’s a monster,” Clint agrees. “You forget how much babies eat. And poop.”

Tony sidles up. “And how are... your other little people?”

Steve rolls his eyes. 

“ _Cooper_ and _Lila_ are fine,” Clint says, speaking slowly and deliberately, but not without humour. “Getting used to having a little brother and a dad around.” He casts about the room. “How’s things here? Place seems pretty empty.”

“They’re all out on a training mission,” says Steve. “I’m sure if Natasha had known you were coming, she’d’ve been here.”

Clint grimaces. “Nat _did_ know I was coming. Probably figured this was something I’d not want an audience for.”

“Well that sounds serious,” Tony says.

“Yeah, kinda,” Clint admits. He takes a deep breath. “I’ve thought about this a lot. And not just a lot by my standards. A _lot_ lot. And I really appreciate you keeping a seat open for me on the team, but...”

“It’s okay, Clint,” Steve says as Clint’s voice tails off. “Your priorities have changed. No-one would expect you to stay in the line of fire with a family to take care of.”

“Just wondering...” Tony adds with the thick accent he uses when he’s not-quite-joking, “what’s the difference between two kids and three in the whole ‘saving the world’ shtick?”

Clint shrugs, impervious to Stark-brand teasing. “When Coop was little, we needed the money. When Lila was little, I thought I was the only one who could do it. Now? SHIELD didn’t do bad by me. And you’ve got people who can do the job watching your back. Time’s right.”

Tony seems to consider this as an abstract problem for a moment, then nods. “Yeah, okay. I get it.”

“Hey, the futurist gives me his approval. Will wonders never cease?” Clint shoves Tony playfully on the shoulder and just for a moment it looks like they might wrestle. Then Clint laughs. “So how ‘bout you guys?” He looks over at the bureau. “You getting into antique hunting?”

“That’s no way to talk about Steve,” Tony scolds.

Steve purses his lips at him, only just a fraction from a pout. “We’re just...”

Tony speaks over him. “Building a farm.”

Barton’s brow creases just for a moment, but then the import of the words seems to come to him. The farm is home, and family. “Well, damn,” he says, giving a little whistle. “I mean, congratulations and all that. Big step.”

“It’s across the hall,” says Tony, and he’s back to being flippant.

Steve puts one arm around Tony’s shoulder, the other around Clint’s. “You didn’t come all this way just to resign though, right? I mean, it’s long way to drive just to head straight back out.”

Clint scrunches his nose. “Well, idea was for me to get part way back tonight, then crash in the back of the van so I can be back in time for the school run.”

“I’ll sort it,” Tony dismisses with a wave of his hand. “C’mon. Have a last night with the team. I’ll put a fake fire on the TV screen, we can swap stories of gruesome injuries...”

Clint doesn’t look entirely convinced.

“...I might have a secret stash of that ice cream from the parlour you like off 52nd...”

Clint’s eyes light up. “Stark, if I weren’t already married and Steve wasn’t so... huge.” He looks Steve up and down. “God, man, do you ever stop working out?” he adds, before shaking himself. “That is the kind of thing that could turn a guy’s head.”

“So you’ll stay?” Steve asks. A big smile, probably the one Sam labels ‘goofy’, spreads across his face. He’d not realised just how much he missed the snarky archer being around.

“I guess.” He offers Steve a cheesy grin.

“C’mon, then,” Tony says, stepping forward and creating a domino effect of movement. “We’re as done here as we need to be. Let’s go eat cupcakes until we can no longer move.”

“Thor didn’t make them, did he?” Clint asks nervously.

“Nope,” Tony confirms.

“Oh, thank God. My stomach hasn’t recovered from the last time he tried to bake.”

 

****

There’s a little something special in the air tonight or, more likely, in Steve’s tumbler. He never really felt comfortable in groups; even Holidays were just him and his mom. Buck tried to drag him out, make him mix, but he always felt like someone on the outside looking in. But tonight... tonight he can’t imagine being anywhere but here, surrounded by these people, listening to them talk and laugh and shine in a world that had once felt so strange and unfamiliar. The only thing that could make it better would be if Bucky could be there with them. Steve feels a guilty twang in his chest, but even that is muted by the Asgardian liqueur swimming about in his soda.

“No, he was,” Rhodey is saying, “naked as the day he was born, except for a Phi-Mu party hat. They don’t even _have_ a Phi-Mu Fraternity at MIT.”

“Oh man,” Clint says, clapping his hands, “I would’ve loved to see him passed out with his ass in the air!”

“I wish it was my ass,” Tony interjects. “I was sprawled like a goddam starfish right in the middle of the rotunda. And as a healthy, young man of 19...”

Clint covers Wanda’s ears. “Careful, Stark, we’ve got juniors in the room.”

“Hey,” she says, shaking him off. “Viz is younger than me.”

Vision clears his throat. “I presume Mr. Stark is implying that he had developed an erection.”

“Oh. My. God, Vision,” Natasha laughs. “The point of ‘implying’ is that you don’t _actually_ say it.”

“Interesting,” Vision replies. From the kitchen, the microwave dings. “Ah, the popcorn is ready,” he says. “I will fetch it.”

Sam sits forward as Vision goes to retrieve the snacks, dropping his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Has anyone figured out yet if he has a schlong?”

Steve snorts with laughter. Tony looks him up and down and then plucks the glass out of Steve’s hand and deposits it out of reach on the table.

“You really wanna know?” Rhodey says, ignoring them. There’s a little bit of a slur in words. “I say ask Ms. Maximoff over there.” He wafts a beer bottle in Wanda’s direction.

“And what’s that supposed to mean, Iron-underling?” Wanda relies, a scarlet sparkle in her eye.

Natasha strokes the Sokovian’s wavy, brown hair. “Nothing sweetie, just that you can read minds.”

What Wanda mutters doesn’t need to translate to _translate_.

Clint stretches and yawns. “Well, guys, it was great to hang with you but I’m gonna take advantage of there not being a baby in the house and get a full night’s sleep.” He gets up to go, then hesitates. He reaches into his back pocket, pulls out his wallet. From it, he extracts his Avengers security card. He taps it against the fingers of his other hand, then holds it out towards Tony. “I guess I should give you this back,” he says.

Tony waves him off. “Keep it,” he says. “You never know when you might need a couple of days away from the old ball and chain.”

“Tony!” It’s not possible to decipher who says it among the chorus, but Steve’s voice is among them.

Yeah, he’s probably had enough.

Clint pockets the card and, with a small smile and a nod of his head, bids the collective good night.

Tony wriggles himself out from under Steve’s arm. “I think it’s time I got the big feller up to bed, too.”

Steve frowns. “You know where Banner is?” he asks.

Tony rolls his eyes. He holds out his hand. “C’mon super-soldier, time for a super-nap. And probably a super-Advil in the morning.”

Steve accepts Tony’s offer allowing himself be helped up.

“Aww, grandpa’s drunk,” Sam chortles, lifting a beer to Steve.

Steve, in an undeniably bouyant mood, plays along. “I just can’t keep up with you young whippersnappers,” he says. He curls his arm around Tony’s waist and tucking his hand into the back pocket of Tony’s jeans, giving the flesh there a tweak. 

Tony’s eyebrows twitch in pleased surprise, and the way his lips play out his smirk invite some quite interesting thoughts. “Night, kids,” he says with a smirk.

“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t,” Steve adds.

The rest of the Drunk Avengers at least wait until he and Tony have left the room before bursting into laughter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for missing last week, it was caused by a sudden increase in the density of reality.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Steve is wrong and right, and Tony is right and wrong, and Hawkeye might very well need therapy.

Staggering only a little, Tony deposits Steve on the first chair they get to upon reaching the suite. “You know, you’re heavier than you look. And you look damn heavy,” he says, shaking out his arm.

“I coulda made it on my own...” Steve grumbles. He’s doing his best to seem sober, but the thirty-seven degree lilt in his seated posture kind of gives him away. 

“Of course you could,” Tony placates. “Now let’s get some coffee inside you.” 

“Is that all you want inside-a-me?” Steve asks, his long eyelashes fluttering against his flushed cheeks. Tony’s eyebrows shoot up, but Steve’s not done. “I was really hoping for a bit more of that eggnog ice cream.”

Tony chuckles and heads over to the little kitchenette to fire up the espresso machine. “That Barton is a bad influence,” he calls over burbling. “We should’ve sent him packing years back.”

Something heavy sounding bounces off the ceiling of the floor below, and brings a smile to Tony’s lips. He dispenses two shot glasses of molasses-dark coffee and places them on saucers. He picks them up and turns towards where he left Steve.

Steve, who has apparently disappeared.

“I knew I should’ve tagged you when I had the chance,” he mutters, sliding the saucers back onto the counter.

A thump from the sleeping area tips Tony towards investigating in that direction. He pokes his head around the line of book cases used as a room separator. 

Steve is perched on the very end of the bed, arms spread and palms bracing him as he leans slightly back. His curled fingers send rays of folds out across the cotton sheets, and the look he returns is very deliberate.

Tony smirks and steps out from behind the unit. “Well,” he says. “I’m getting a real feeling of déjà vu, here.”

“That _was_ the plan,” Steve replies.

“Good plan,” Tony says, placing himself in the gap between Steve’s knees.

“You know,” Steve says, reaching up and unbuckling Tony’s belt, sliding it free of the loops on his trousers and casting it aside. “I thought you were inviting me up that night to have your way with me.”

Tony fights a valiant fight against laughing. It’s made just a little bit easier by the way Steve’s hands go about their business, popping open the button on his trousers with practiced ease. “Yeah?” he asks, shuffling just a fraction closer. “Bit presumptuous of you, wasn’t it?”

Steve tilts up his chin. From this angle he’s all nose and eyes and pink-dusted cheeks. “I know I’m not as good with this stuff as you are, but just because I’m not doing a thing, doesn’t mean I’m not _thinking_ it.”

“Mmhmm,” Tony says as Steve leans in and turns his attention to the break in fabric between Tony’s trousers and tee. His mouth is hot and damp, and draws a shiver from Tony. “Well, I’m interested to hear... any other ideas you had,” he says, breath catching in his throat.

Steve pulls him down onto the bed, hands moving from hips, to chest, to shoulders before running his fingers into the short hairs at the back of his neck, cupping his head in one palm. “Sometimes when we’re with the others, I just wanna kiss you ‘til you can’t stand.”

Tony looks down at him, feels the cradling tension of the mattress beneath his knees and the press of Steve’s thigh between his. “I don’t normally encourage bad habits in other people,” he purrs, brushing his lips against Steve’s, “but we _have_ to get you drunk more.”

“Gee, ‘cause we never fool around when I’m sober,” Steve replies. 

“Well, the booze makes your accent go all old school ‘Brooklyn’,” admits Tony. “It’s hilarious. And oddly charming.”

Steve whines and pushes up against him, back arching as though he’s disgruntled but with a little too much sinuous control to be anything other than an invite. “You _love_ it,” he says, deliberately laying the twang on thick.

Tony goes very still. He’s said those words and similar to Steve so many times he’s lost count and this is the first time Steve has returned them. Shifting his weight, Tony frees a hand and uses it to cup the curve of Steve’s cheek. He runs his thumb over Steve’s drink-flushed lips. “Yes, I do,” he says.

Steve’s eyelashes flutter, and his lips part just enough for his tongue to flick against the pad of Tony’s thumb. Tony sees his throat bob as he swallows, feels the stutter in his breath and realises he’s holding his own in anticipation.

“You want me to put on the suit?” Steve says.

A laugh bursts out of Tony. Damn, that is not what he expected. In fact, it’s so far from what he expected that it’s circled back around again and become _perfect_. “Actually, I think the fewer clothes you’re wearing right now, the happier I’ll be.”

****

“How’s your head?” Tony asks, looking up from his pad as Steve wanders from the bedroom and into the lounge and flops heavily onto the couch.

“Shout less, coffee more,” Steve replies, holding out his hand.

Tony chuckles. It’s nice to see Steve like this: not Mister Perfect. Maybe it’s a little mean to laugh at a guy nursing his head, but there’s something psychologically reassuring about Captain America with a hangover. He uses his foot to nudge a glass of Alka Seltzer that’s already bubbling away on the coffee table towards Steve.

“What time is it?” asks the somewhat-less-super-than-usual soldier, after draining the glass in one.

“It’s past ten,” Tony replies. “You totally crashed. Snored so much I almost smothered you.”

“I’ve told you, I _don’t_ snore.” 

“How would you know? You’re fast asleep.”

Steve grunts, a throaty huff. “Buck woulda told me.”

Tony, being the mature and emotionally well-adjusted person he is, lets that one slide. At least until the next time Steve accuses him of being tactless. After all, you date a 97 year old and they’re gonna have some history. And while ‘history’ doesn’t typically involve Robocop-style assassins with good looks with whom your significant other spent a significant amount of time with growing up and going to war, it’s not like he has anything to worry about. He’s Tony Stark.

Yep. It’s even less convincing when you say it in your head.

“So,” he drawls. “Once you finish drying out, do you have any plans for the day? Hit the gym? Help me pack for DC? Punch a bad guy on the nose?” He pauses, taps his finger thoughtfully against his lips. “Or is that sharks? I can never remember.”

Steve, who is already starting (rather annoyingly) to look perkier, shrugs. “Thought I’d go over the team stats from yesterday, the training mission with Nat.”

“You really know how to kick back and enjoy yourself,” Tony says. “Well, if it’s work you want, I have something to show you.” He tosses Steve his pad.

“What’s this?” Steve asks.

“You know how you used to write on little slate tablets when you were at school? This is like that only cooler.”

Steve rolls his eyes. Tony pushes himself up and out of the chair, running his palms over his thighs. “Something you need to see. It’ll take you a while, though, so I’m gonna to take a shower.”

His attention already on the pad, Steve nods slightly. Tony saunters to the bathroom and turns on the jets.

Steve’s voice comes over the rumble of running water, sounding thick through the steam. “I pressed the wrong button!” he calls. “How do I open it back up?”

“Just click on the file name!” he shouts back, stepping under the spray. 

He hums quietly to the rhythm of the falling drops, washing away the night before in little dollops of foam. After a good, long while, he turns off the water and lets the last drops roll over and off his skin. He steps out of the shower, looking over his body in the mirror. His eyes catch on the tangle of scar tissue over his heart. It sounds strange, and quite probably indicates something entirely worrisome, but he misses the reactor sometimes. It buzzed. You couldn’t feel it unless you laid your hand to it, but Tony had grown to find its resonance a comfort. He knows removing it was the right thing to do, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t feel like something is missing. As though he’s just playing at being something he no longer is.

Like with these Accords. Tony’s not sure whether it indicates personal growth or burgeoning cowardice that he dropped them in Steve’s lap and left. Sure, he can tell himself that he wants Steve to come to his own conclusions, but that’s no more likely than him being scared of what those conclusions might be. Because the damnedest thing? Tony doesn’t completely disagree with what Ross has to say. Oversight. In the day, he would have met any suggestion that someone else make the hard choices with ridicule. But isn’t that what he does now? Hands over the reins, lets other people stand - and even fall - while he talks pretty and shines his shoes?

He grits his teeth, tugs a towel off the rack and loops it around his waist. Steve has had time enough now to catch the drift of the document. The silence coming from the other room is either encouraging or very, very bad. It’s probably too much to ask that Steve’s just fallen asleep on the couch, still sweating out the last of last night’s booze. More likely he’s stormed off to the gym to punch some heavy bags into submission.

Tony pads out of the bathroom, feeling the crinkle of carpet beneath his toes. Steve is still sitting in the chair Tony left him in, back to where Tony stands. His head is bowed and he is very still.

Could life really be that good to him? Has his remarkably well-preserved nonagenarian boyfriend just taken a nap? He moves further into the room, circling quietly around so he can see Steve’s face.

Steve lifts his gaze to meet Tony’s. The look in his eyes is something else, something Tony never seen there. It stops him in his tracks.

“What the hell is this?” Steve asks, his voice flat.

He hates himself for it, but a quip forms on Tony’s lips. “What does it look like?” he says.

Steve picks up the pad. He pokes it a couple of times and then pinch-flicks the in-built projection technology out into the room.

A map of the world floats into view; blue and transparent, ethereally beautiful. Location markers dot the surface of the globe, triangulation coordinates floating beside them.

It is most definitely _not_ a legal document.

Shit.

“Shit,” Tony says aloud, and that Steve utterly fails to react is telling.

“It looks like tracking data,” Steve replies to the earlier, flippant remark. “And this?” he says, pointing at a list of 12-digit codes, “looks like a list of all the numbers Buck called me from over the last six months.”

He knows what’s happened. His pad is the only one with access to _every_ network on the system. He gave it to Steve unlocked. Steve re-opened the wrong file. This is not genius-level deduction. In fact, it’s file security 101. It’s ‘do not pass Go, do not collect $2,000,000 dollars from a data-protection lawsuit’.

“Shit,” he says again, because it gives him just a few more seconds to collect his thoughts. Denial isn’t an option, and he doesn’t even have a foot on the moral high ground to try deflecting. All that’s left...

Is the truth.

“Yes,” he says. “That’s exactly what it is.”

“You wanna tell me...”

Tony taps at the projection, fingers ghosting over holographic keys. The locator dots change to red, getting brighter the more recent they are. A glowing string ties them together, emphasising clusters of calls from different continents. Madripoor to Malaysia, Malaysia to Vietnam, Vietnam to Bangladesh, Bangladesh to Bhutan. Then the cluster jumps. Sudan, Ethiopia, Eritrea... It’s obvious, displayed like this, that the distances between the dots are growing shorter. The brightest of them are in Europe. Hungary, Croatia, Serbia, _Sokovia_ , Bulgaria, Romania.

“Barnes’s movements have a pattern,” Tony says, looking anywhere but at Steve. “I’m theorising that each of these points indicates a former HYDRA safe house or isolated cell. As each one gets depleted, or the potential that they’ll discover he’s no longer working for them gets too great, he hops to a new location. Asia, Africa, South America,” he says, pointing to each one in turn, “and now Europe.”

“You told me you destroyed the bug in my phone,” Steve says bitterly, and Tony can’t help but search for his eyes.

“I did,” he says. “This level of data, you don’t need a bug for. You can get it off the internet. I can get it; you sure as hell better believe Ross can get it.”

He sees Steve’s cheeks darken, his eyes narrow. “But _why_ did you get it? Are you doing Ross’s dirty work for him, or do you just have a need to know everyone’s damn business? Spying on me, Tony? Why would you do that?”

“I did it _for_ you,” Tony replies. It sounds weak even to his own ears and the way Steve’s posture tightens shows he isn’t convinced either. “After you told me about Barnes, I went looking. Turns out there’s been a task-force out looking for him since Widow dropped HYDRA’s files to the public. They’ve kept it off our radar, for obvious reasons, and that’s why they haven’t caught him yet - the need to keep it quiet. But all it’ll take is one analyst with a hair’s more intelligence than the rest to put your records together with the task force’s sightings data, and they’ll have him pinned in a matter of days. Doing this...” he flicks his wrist at the floating map and it vanishes, “means we can get to him _first_.”

Steve slumps heavily back into a chair. He buries his head in his hands for a moment, and Tony can see the rise and fall of his shoulders as he takes several deep breaths. He lifts his eyes to meet Tony’s once more. “You’re always so sure you’re doing the right thing.”

“Sometimes I am.”

It looks like Steve bites back a reply at that, licking his lips cautiously. “Okay,” he says, “Let’s run with it a moment. If Bucky’s trying to stay off the grid, only making contact with isolated or disbanded HYDRA cells, why would he risk Europe? Any remaining resources there will either know he isn’t the Soldier anymore or be under surveillance.”

Tony shrugs, taking a step towards the chair Steve is sat on. “The call-ins have been getting closer together for a while now. Not plane journeys anymore. Train rides. Maybe bus trips. My guess is that he’s running short on places to hide and is looking for somewhere he can _blend_ in. That, or...”

“Or he’s not hiding anymore,” Steve finishes for him. He shakes his head. “No. Buck told me that whilst ever he’s _him_ , he’ll call. If HYDRA had caught him, they’d’ve wiped his memory clear again. He’s out there.”

The conviction in Steve’s voice makes Tony want to believe it. “If his pattern fits, the next call will come from within 100 miles of his last check-in.”

“Where was he last?” Steve asks, and his voice is so tired that it tugs at Tony, draws him within arm’s reach. He places his hand on Steve’s drooped shoulder, and when Steve doesn’t resist, runs it up to his hair, fingers working through the bristles at the back of Steve’s neck, stroking and soothing.

“Giurgiu, Romanian border,” Tony says softly. “But it’s likely he has either moved on already or will be in the next few days. If you like...”

Steve leans into his touch for a moment, eyes fluttering closed so that his long lashes lie like butterfly wings against the sweep of his cheeks. Then he opens them and there’s so much age set in his young face that Tony has to suppress a shiver.

“You think I don't want to go after him?” says Steve quietly. “Dammit, Tony, he's my friend; my best friend. I love him. I would turn heaven and hell upside down if I thought he _wanted_ me to find him. But I made a promise, and that matters to me. More than what I want.”

Tony isn’t sure if it’s the words themselves or the weight behind them, but he sways; stepping back to catch himself. _I love him_. It’s not even that the idea of Steve loving someone is hard to imagine. But _saying_ it? Just out and out saying it without prompt or pause? That is. A year they’ve been doing this - dating, banging, being _together_ \- nearly a whole damn year. And so many times the words have been on his lips and he’s pulled them back because he didn’t want to embarrass Steve or back him into something he didn’t feel comfortable saying in return.

But Bucky?

 _I love him_.

Suddenly, the door to the suite flies open, not even a buzz or a knock to announce itself. Clint stands framed by the bright light of the hallway behind him.

“Okay, look, I’m not closing my eyes because this is important and I want you to take me seriously, so if anyone _is_ naked, Stark is just going to have to pay for my therapy...”

Tony glowers at the archer, who appears to be breathing heavily. “I thought you were leaving early?” he says.

Steve adds his voice to the sentiment. “Clint, this _really_ isn’t a good time...”

“Yeah,” Clint says, “I get that from the serious looks. But Cap, this you want to hear, and you want to hear it _now_.”

Steve looks at Tony, and the message there is unmistakeable: _this isn’t finished._ “Okay,” he says aloud, “tell us what you’ve got.”

****

It makes more sense to gather everyone in the conference room than to repeat what Clint has to say. Tony takes to a seat on the sidelines as the rest gather around the table and Clint heads up front. He scratches his nose, tugs down his plaid shirt.

“Hello ladies and gentlemen, my name is Clint and I’ll be your Captain this morning.”

Sam humours him with a smile that teeters towards a grimace. “Okay, man. Good one. Now you want to get to the point?”

“Well, someone’s a grumpy bird,” Clint replies. “What’s wrong? No worm for you?”

“Clint,” Natasha cautions.

“Okay,” he says. “So I thought that while I was here I’d take advantage of having a secure line to catch up with a few old acquaintances, people who don’t know my recent employment details.”

“Criminals,” provides Natasha.

“Useful contacts,” Clint corrects. “Anyway, there’s this guy I used to know, way back. Real nice. Works in targeted demolitions; vault-cracking. Hell of a head for explosives.” He sighs wistfully. “Made me my first trick arrows...”

“And I thought Cap was the old man of the team,” Rhodey grunts. “You gonna shout us off your lawn, gramps?”

Clint narrows his eyes at him. “Anyway, Norman said he’d been contacted by this guy for some work down in Africa. Pretty heavy duty, the type of thing you’d need if you wanted to get through steel reinforced concrete.”

Steve straightens. “So, bank?”

“Police station,” Clint replies. “Money was good. Maybe a bit too good, which is what first made him suspicious. But he agreed to meet the big guy, talk details. And that’s when I got real interested. He said the guy called himself ‘Crossbones’ and wore a mask. Norm doesn’t like masks, they freak him the hell out. So he turned the job down.”

Sam raises his hand like a kid in class. “So we’re taking a tip on Rumlow - one of the world’s most wanted criminals - from a guy who robs banks for a living and doesn’t like masks?” he asks.

“And is called ‘Norman’,” Rhodes adds dryly.

“Yes,” Clint confirms. “Because Norman gave me the location, the date and some limited specs on Rumlow’s set-up.”

Sitting forward, Steve nods his head. “Good job,” he says. He stands and turns on the group. “This is the best lead we’ve had on Rumlow since the oil refinery; the first time we’ll have advanced notice of one of his targets. When and where’s this set to go down, Clint?”

“One week,” Clint says. “Apparently the date was important, fixed. Norm couldn’t say why.”

“Could be a set up,” Natasha provides.

“We have a week to prepare for that eventuality,” Steve says, “but it’s still our best shot.” He turns, looks straight at Tony.

Tony frowns, then realises what he’s waiting for. “I agree,” he says hastily.

“Right,” Steve says, shoulders setting square. “Then everyone suit up. We double training immediately. Clint? We could use the experience on-side.”

Clint holds up his hands, shaking his head. “No thank you, Cap,” he says. “Think of this as my leaving present. I’m now officially retired.”

The rest file out, Nat tugging Clint along with her. Tony hangs back, still seated, feeling eyes on him. Once the room is clear, he lifts his gaze to meet Steve’s.

“Your side project,” Steve says flatly. “Bury it. Buck’s kept his head down for two years. I have to believe that the good in him has won out.”

Tony nods, just enough for Steve to know he’ll do as asked.

“I’m going to have my hands full prepping for this mission,” Steve continues in that same level tone. “We have a real shot at taking Rumlow down and I won’t waste it.”

Tony gets to his feet. “That’s okay. I’m expected in DC, and I have this MIT thing...” 

It’s true and it isn’t. He ought to go do his damn job: keep Steve and the team free of interference and help protect the future by investing in it. But he knows those days are coming to a close, and that no matter what, some things can’t be fixed by words and grand gestures alone. 

Dammit, he hates metaphors.

“Steve,” he says, catching the other man’s arm as he makes for the door. “About Barnes...”

Steve looks from where Tony has hold of him and back to his eyes. He shakes his head and pulls away. “Every time I think we’re getting somewhere, something like this happens. Right now the team needs us to prioritise them. You do what you need to do and I’ll do what I need to do. After...” He sighs wearily. “After Rumlow’s in custody, then we can talk.”

He leaves Tony to the empty conference room and the thought that whatever they’re doing, they’re not doing it together any more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wanna talk fandom? My [Tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/opposablethumbs-on-ao3) wants YOU*.
> 
> *Not in a creepy way.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meanwhile, in Romania...

***Translated from Romanian**

**“The apartment is not very large, but you may find it suitable.”**

The older lady opens the door and stands to one side to let Bucky enter. Stale air wafts out and washes over them, a smell that speaks of disuse and poor heating.

**“But the price is one thousand a month?”** he says, taking a breath and stepping inside.

The woman follows him, closing the door behind them. **“If that is what it said in the advertisement,”** she says, shrugging as Bucky twists to look at her.

**“You don’t own the building?”** he asks.

The woman laughs. **“Oh no,”** she says. **“Mr Antonescu simply entrusts me with a key. I am your neighbour, Helena.”**

**“Call me Iacob,”** Bucky replies.

Helena smiles, a hint of knowing in her grey eyes. She touches his arm, his _left_ arm, to encourage him further into the apartment. He tries not to pull away too fast, but equally daren’t let her worn fingers linger for long in case she feels the metal where flesh should be. He tries to cover his awkwardness by stalking down the dimly lit corridor and into the equally dimly lit room that serves as kitchen, diner, and bedroom.

**“This will be much nicer without the paper on the windows,”** Helena says. **“And there is a small space outside. Not much of a view, but...”**

Bucky doesn’t look out of the back door to determine whether it is indeed not much of a view. Instead, he turns his attention to the tiny washroom. A john, no sink, and a shower head that pokes out of cracked tiles. But it’s _private_ at least, not even a window. 

Helena is waiting for him when he re-emerges, and there’s something of patient grace in how she leans lightly against the counter. 

**“Is it adequate?”** she asks.

He nods. **“A home away from home.”**

Her lips purse just slightly, a look of consideration. **“You are American?** she says. Bucky’s mouth opens; closes. He’s not used to anyone being able to identify his origins. At least not so precisely, so quickly.

Helena holds up her hand. **“It doesn’t matter to me,”** she assures. **“It’s just I thought at first you were Russian. You have a hint of it in your accent.”**

Bucky wets his lower lip. **“No. I was... I am American,”** he confirms. 

“None of us are who we were,” Helena says, “we can only be who we are.” Absently, she lifts her hand to touch a thin, gold chain around her neck.

Without quite understanding why, Bucky comes to a conclusion. **“If I was to say yes, how quickly could I move in?”**

Helena gestures about the room. **“As you can see, it is empty. You would just need to bring your belongings.”**

Embarrassed heat flushes Bucky’s cheeks. Self-consciously, he hefts the strap of his backpack, resettling it. **“This is, ah... pretty much it,”** he says. **“I’ve been travelling.”**

Helena nods slightly, eyebrows twitching as if she isn’t surprised. **“Well then?”** she says, holding out the key.

Bucky rubs his mouth with his gloved, good hand. It’s a big step. Renting a room, settling down. Things will have to change and a promise will have to get broken. But he knows, _knows_ , that if he is ever to become more than what he has been, this is something he has to do. Bucharest is both a choice of necessity and practicality. He barely has enough cash left to make rent, so keeping moving is no longer an option. But Romania is also cool enough year-round for him to keep his arm covered without looking suspicious and he looks enough like a native not to draw attention. He has a chance to blend in, a chance for someone like Helena to see him as a neighbour rather than a monster.

He takes the key and Helena once more smiles.

“I hope you will be happy here,” she says, her English accented but flawless.

She sees herself out. Buck waits behind the door, listening for her to return to her own apartment and then hurriedly fastens the catch and turns the lock. Only then does he realise how heavily he’s breathing, drawing air into his lungs as though fearing he might be about to drown. Slowly his heart steadies and slows. He pulls off his gloves and rests his backpack against the wall. He puts his shiny, metal hand to the wooden door, fingers resting on the grain and sensing the imperfections there.

“So do I,” he answers.

****

Today wasn’t a bad day.

Now, all things are relative in Bucky-land. A security guard followed him around in the supermarket, although probably under the impression that he was a shoplifter as opposed to an international fugitive. He got chased off two building sites for not having papers, but the third one told him to come back next week and maybe there would be a little something for him. And then, sitting out behind the building like it had been left there for him, was a mattress. Not quite a double and not quite stain-free, but at least some of the springs had some life left in them. He’d only waited long enough to make sure no one was coming back for it before slinging it over his shoulder and hauling it up the fire escape.

He’s only been in Bucharest for thirty-six hours, and he already has a mattress.

It’s been years since he had anything more than a cold metal chair or the ground to sleep on. The Soviets didn’t care much for their Soldiers’ comfort. Once training was over, there were pretty much two options: in stasis or following orders.

He cuts the top of a tin of soup with his knife and uses crackers to scoop it into his mouth. In fairness the supermarket guard wasn’t entirely wrong about him. And while he feels bad about stealing, he only ever takes as much as he absolutely needs. As he shovels the cold broth into his mouth with one hand, he scribbles a few notes in his book with the other. When the bits of him first started to come back, they were like flashes of film: black and white and grainy. Then came the colours; sounds; words and voices. Most recently it’s been smells. He bought the notebook in Providence, knowing how easily he could slip away again. Since then he’s nearly filled its pages with the broken fragments of himself, trying to stay whole.

Before long, however, it’s getting too dark to read and he’s about as full as he’s going to get, which means it’s time for bed. He looks down at the bare mattress: funny how quickly it became something else. He gets a flutter of nervous expectation as he moves towards it, and as he kneels on it finds that it’s lumpy but not unbearable. He turns and sits, then lies back, shifting his weight until he finds a spot that offers some measure of support. It feels weird. Not bad, exactly, but definitely weird. His body seems lighter, the strain across his shoulders noticeable by its absence.

Should he still be wearing his shoes?

No. Scrap that. Stupid question. Normal people don’t wear shoes in bed. They wear... bed clothes? Or just their pants. Or nothing at all. He remembers hot, thundery nights where the sheets beneath his back were damp with sweat. Or winters after the stove went out and the room got so cold he would be glad of a bedfellow to cling to just to get to sleep. 

Well, things change. There’s no one now to keep him warm, and sleeping in your birthday suit when you might get called upon to run for your life at any moment isn’t the best idea. Sprinting through the streets, balls out and cock flopping in the breeze, draws attention. The metal arm would probable get a few sideways glances, as well. 

He tucks his right hand beneath the waist of his trousers, his palm pressed to his belly. Warmth flows from skin to skin and he closes his eyes. The position feels comfortable... familiar. He has a feeling he used to lie like this. Just then, his fingers brush over a puckered line of scar tissue running at a diagonal up from just beneath his navel. He doesn’t know where he got it. It isn’t from one of his missions, he’s pretty sure of that. It probably doesn’t matter, it’s just one mark amongst many, but it bothers him sometimes. Not the scar itself, but the not knowing.

He doesn’t realise he’s fallen asleep until a siren in the distance startles him awake. Heart pounding, he jerks upright. It isn’t like him to fall asleep so fast or so completely. The fingers of his metal arm tense, leg muscles gathering; ready to flee. He makes a mental map of his meagre possessions: bag by the stove, notebook at his side, shoes still on his feet and his gun hard against his back. The half-roll of toilet paper in the john can probably be abandoned from necessity.

Like so many times before, he waits for the inevitable to happen: the fight that always follows. But the wail fades into the distance and the regular sounds of the night resume. Probably just some cop late home for his dinner, using his siren to skip through red lights. 

Quietly, he recites the words written at the front of his notebook, those first pieces of himself that he put back together.

Steve  
Brooklyn  
Museum  
Sergeant  
Newspapers  
Punk  
Sarah  
Smaller  
Steam train  
Pitkin

The ritual calms him, even as it stirs up memories he’d rather _not_ recall. He exhales shakily and draws his knees up to his chest, resting his chin on them and gathering his arms around himself tightly. 

He won’t be lying down again. Not tonight, at least.

****

Bucky sleeps fitfully until dawn and wakes to the dull filter of light that creeps through the yellowing newspaper lining the windows. He uncurls himself, limbs familiarly stiff. But there is something strange, a whisper of a thing forgotten. He touches his lips. A _taste_. 

The taste of pie.

Years before he became the Soldier, before the War, back in Brooklyn. It was what Steve’s mom always made for his birthday. Sugar-sweet, topped with buttery pastry; she’d use whatever fruit was most plentiful at the market, yet somehow it was always made your lips slippery and stuck to your tongue. Bucky closes his eyes and remembers the sensations, the flavour and the feeling of indulgence. 

He never felt so at home as when he was sitting at that table, spoon in his hand and the anticipation of the sugary dessert making his stomach growl. Steve’s mom would give Steve the biggest piece, it being his birthday and all, but Steve would always switch his bowl with Buck, and Sarah would pretend not to notice. A little later, one or two of the older neighbours would drop by, drawn in by the smell and the hope of leftovers. Steve and his mom didn’t have much, a nurse’s wage didn’t go far, and as her health failed she could work less and less, but she always made sure there was enough to share. Because that’s what good people do; they share what little they have with others, just because it’s the right thing.

Bucky wonders if Helena would like to share some pie with him.

He shakes himself. Damn fool of a thought. Putting aside that he isn’t actually sure how to _make_ pastry, and that he doesn’t have a gas cylinder for the stove, how would that conversation even go?

**_“Hi, I’m your neighbour Bucky, even though I told you my name is Iacob. We met a few days ago when you showed me the apartment and then haven’t seen me since, but I wondered if you’d maybe like to come by for some dessert?”_ **

Best case scenario, Helena would think he was strange, maybe even a bit special.

Worst case, she might accept.

Bucky knows why he’s thinking this way. Today’s the day he would normally call Steve. But he knows - okay, he hopes - that Stevie would understand. He briefly considers one last call; even waiting for Steve to pick up and explaining to him, but he daren’t risk it. He trusts Steve, sure, but not the people around him. He doesn’t know them. And any call long enough to talk is long enough to track. He might as well send up a flag with a big red star in the middle of it.

He climbs to his feet, picking up his notebook out of habit and leaving the mattress bare behind him. Moving to where his bag is tossed by the counter, he stoops and rummages inside. He finds the phone at the bottom alongside a pear that he’d forgotten he had. 

Buck lays the phone on the counter while he munches the pear, looking at it thoughtfully. Black and blocky, it still astonishes him that such a small device can ring someone half a world away. With the fingers of his flesh hand, he strokes the plastic, a last farewell. 

“I’ll miss you, pal,” he whispers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heyyyy... so I decided to spilt my blogs. Micromarvel will continue as is, but my personal(ish) blog is now [opposablethumbs-on-ao3](https://opposablethumbs-AO3.tumblr.com/opposablethumbs-on-ao3).
> 
> I'm a good buddy, swearsies.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In preparation for Lagos, Steve practices getting tossed (through windows) and Natasha displays her bro (and poker) skills.

Wanda frowns at him, nose crinkled in that expression of disdain that teenagers and young adults have used for time immemorial.

“Why would I want to do that?” she says.

Steve holds back a sigh. “You might not _want_ to, but a team-mate might need you to.”

“But Rhodes and Wilson fly already. Viz too.”

“But what about Widow? Or me for that matter.”

“I have picked you up,” Wanda replies flatly. “Picking you up is easy.”

“Yes, picking me up is easy,” agrees Steve patiently. “But launching me at speed at a restricted target isn’t. So we practice it.”

Natasha takes that moment to sidle up. There’s a grass stain and smudge of dirt on her cheek. “Something up?” she asks.

Wanda turns to consider Nat. “It’s Steve. He is asking me to toss him.”

Natasha blinks, slowly levelling on Steve. “Is that right, Captain Rogers?” she asks, a wobble twitching the corners of her lips.

“She thinks it’s as easy as picking me up,” Steve says. 

Natasha’s expression takes on a decidedly strained appearance. “Well, to be fair Steve, that really _isn’t_ that hard.”

Steve frowns at her. “That window is less than two meters square. That’s a pretty tight hole to aim a moving target at.”

Natasha blinks. “I honestly can’t tell if you two are pulling my leg with all this.”

“Excuse me?” says Steve.

“You know what?” Nat says, “Never mind.” She looks back to Wanda. “Sweetie, Cap’s right. Being able to get us access to an elevated ingress could be critical to an operation. If he wants you to throw him through a window, you throw him through the window.”

“When you put it that way...” Wanda replies thoughtfully.

Nat faces Steve. “And you...” She trails off, shaking her head and stepping back.

“Okay,” says Steve, directing it at Wanda, “I’m going to take a run up and then I want you to lift me and propel me through that window on the second floor, all right? Remember to compensate for speed and drift, and drop the spell as soon as I’m inside.”

Wanda glances at Natasha and then nods. “Okay,” she says.

Steve backs up, giving himself enough space to build up some decent speed. He unclips his shield, holding it before him. Because at least that way, if Wanda _does_ slam him into the complex’s frontage, it will absorb some of the impact. He runs straight towards Wanda, sees her stretch out her hand and begin to cast. Red spirals around him and his ears pop. The air tastes faintly like strawberries. The spell builds, and it’s a little like being trapped in a scented tornado. When the ground falls away, Steve feels a little giddy. He’s thrown himself off plenty of things, but somehow his inner ear knows the difference between that and being hurled away from the ground under someone else’s power. He forces himself into a ball, making himself as small and as aerodynamic as possible. He sees the building rushing towards him, the open window he intended Wanda to aim him at, and the closed one he is instead flying towards.

“Up, up, up,” he mutters, the spell sucking the sounds away before it reaches his ears. “Aw, hell.” He braces himself as he crashes into the closed, first floor window, glass spraying into the room. The spell cuts out as soon as he breaches (one out of two, Maximoff) and he’s dumped unceremoniously on the floor.

“Are you all right, sir?” asks the young woman. Steve realises he’s in one of the non-sterile labs. It says something about their working environment that the scientist doesn’t seem particularly phased by the unannounced arrival of a guy in full costume through her window.

Steve picks himself up from the puddle of shattered polymer glass, dusting himself down and leaning back out of the (now open) window,

“I said _second floor,_ ” he calls, but even as he does he realises that Rhodes, fully suited as War Machine, is sprawled out on the training pitch below. The rest of the team is already gathered round him, and Rhodes himself has his visor up and is holding his right knee in evident distress.

Steve turns back to the scientist. “Are you a doctor?” he asks. “A doctor doctor, I mean.”

She blinks. “Yes. Both kinds.”

“Then come with me,” he says. “I think I have a patient for you.” 

****

Steve stalks the same line up and down the rec room that he has for the last twenty minutes or so.

This time though, on the turn, Natasha pipes up.

“Feel like talking about it?” she says.

Steve stops, looks at her. It’s not overly late by his standards, just before midnight, but the others are already in bed after a last day’s training and in preparation of a dawn flight to Nigeria.

“Excuse me?” he says.

Natasha unfolds herself from the impossibly small space on the couch she was occupying to sit forward and rests her chin in her palm. “You’re making me nervous with all the pacing.”

Steve forces himself to a standstill, folding his arms across his chest and leaning back against the counter. “You don’t get nervous,” he says.

“Sure I do,” she says, favouring him with a small smile. “I get nervous when you get nervous. So spill. What is it? Don’t you think we’re ready for the mission?”

Steve shakes his head, dismissing the idea. “No, the team’s solid. They’ll get the job done.”

“With Rhodes on the bench, do you really think leaving Viz behind is a good idea?”

“If we take him we risk word getting to Rumlow that we’re there. Vision is just too conspicuous for a covert mission.”

“What, even in his nice new sweater-vest?”

Steve doesn’t offer an answer.

“So,” Nat drawls, “If it’s not the mission, I’m guessing it’s whatever is going on with you and Tony, then.” 

“There’s nothing going on with me and Tony.”

Nat snorts. “Come on, Steve. You two have been pretty much joined at the hip these last six months and suddenly he’s not around and you’re acting all...” She plants her hands at her sides and puffs out her chest. “ _Captain America_ ,” she announces dramatically.

Steve doesn’t pose like that.

“I do not pose like that,” he says aloud. Nat lifts her eyebrows at him, and he realises that somehow his arms have unfolded and his balled fists have slipped to rest on his hips. Sheepishly, he assembles himself into a more neutral stance. “Yeah, okay,” he concedes. “It’s kind of about Tony.”

Natasha shrugs. “You guys have fought before. Don’t you normally just have sex until you’re past it?”

There’s heat in Steve’s cheeks and from the look on Nat’s face, he knows his discomfort shows.

“Sorry, you two probably ‘ _make love_ ’, don’t you?” she corrects with a roll of her eyes.

The burning reaches Steve’s ears. “It’s not like that,” he says.

“So then tell me what it’s like.”

Steve sighs. “I’m not getting out of this, am I?” he says.

“Nu-uh,” Nat replies, patting the couch beside her.

Knowing when he’s defeated, Steve crosses to the living area and plonks himself down on the offered seat. In one fluid motion, Nat draws up her legs and slides into his side, linking her arm through his. Normally holding herself separate, almost aloof, Steve knows that the gesture is one of trust. Natasha doesn’t give that often, nor does she expect to be trusted by many people. Steve is proud to be one of the exceptions.

“Tony’s been trying to find Bucky,” he says wearily.

Nat tips her head to rest it on his shoulder. “You say that like it’s a bad thing,” she says. “I mean, I’m hardly Tony’s biggest fan, but helping you track down Bucky seems like a pretty good boyfriend kind of thing. Especially considering how insecure, jealous, and emotionally needy Tony is, I mean.”

“Nice, Romanoff,” Steve grunts, and Nat jostles him in a way that isn’t quite unlike a hug. “But Tony wasn’t looking for Bucky because I asked him to; he was doing behind my back. Using my cell phone records to...” He cuts himself short, realising a second too late what he’s saying.

Natasha doesn’t even blink, she just picks up from where he left off. “He’s been using the list of incoming calls Bucky has been making to your cell to create a locator web, following Bucky’s movements and making a predictive map of his whereabouts.” She drums her fingers on Steve’s thigh. “It’s smart,” she says. “Of course it is. It’s _Stark_.”

It probably shouldn’t surprise Steve, but it does. “You _knew_ I was taking calls from Buck?”

“No one smiles like that at a wrong number. Not even you, Steve.”

Steve groans. “This is why I don’t play poker with you.”

“You don’t play poker with me because the last time you did, you lost everything but your socks.”

“We agreed never to mention that.”

Natasha laughs. It’s a rare sound for her, and it makes Steve feel a little better just for hearing it. “Look,” she says, “the thing to remember with Tony is that he always thinks he’s right.” 

Steve goes to protest, but Natasha waves him off. “I don’t mean that as a bad thing, exactly. He thinks he’s right because he _tries_ to do what he thinks is the right thing. Sometimes it is, sometimes it’s... Ultron.” She shrugs. “He obviously thought trying to find Bucky was the right thing to do, and his only reason for doing it is _you_.

Steve turns it over in his head, then groans again. “Damn it,” he says.

“Yeah, I can be really annoying like that,” Nat replies, unhooking herself from him and easing off the couch. “So what now?” she asks. “Do you get on your bike and ride through the night to find him?”

“I'd never have placed you as a closet romantic, Romanoff.”

She shrugs. “That and your pacing is _really_ getting on my nerves.”

Steve permits a small chuckle to pass his lips. “That's more like it. But no. I told Tony the mission has to come first, and it does. We need as much time as we can on foreign soil to acclimatise and finalise the plan. And he has his speech at MIT tomorrow. I won't risk either just to smooth this thing over.”

Nat sighs. “It's your call, Steve. But you never know what the future holds. Sometimes it's better to act with your heart rather than your head.” She pauses; purses her lips. Her brow draws down into a thoughtful frown. “Unless that’s what you’re already doing,” she says.

Steve knows what she’s getting at, but hell if he’s going to have that chat tonight. “Bucky and I made an agreement,” he says. “It’s nothing more than that.”

“And he’s never broken it?”

Steve shakes his head. “No. Not yet.”

Nat’s eyes narrow a fraction and there’s an edge of disdain in her voice when she replies. “So that’s the real reason for the pacing, then? You’re waiting for that call.” 

“It’s not that simple.”

“Seems pretty simple to me.”

Steve feels a flush of heat, a flash of irritation. He gets to his feet, begins to pace once more; stops himself. “You talk about your ledger,” he says. “Well, Bucky’s in mine, Natasha. I owe him.”

She shakes her head, half-denial and half-disappointment. “Maybe once. But you only know the guy he was. Don’t forget I know the one he became.” Her hand brushes over her midriff, although it doesn’t appear to be a conscious gesture. “You need to decide what you want, Steve,” she says. “And that’s not something I can help you with. But you keep the wrong people close and the others at arm’s length, and I can tell you what you’ll become.”

Steve’s voice sounds like a stranger, even to his own ears. “What?” he says.

Natasha stares back, green eyes unreadable. “Lonely,” she replies.

****

Steve goes to his room. His and Tony’s room, that is. Considering how little of Tony there is in it, Steve feels him in every empty space. He made the bed that morning to Tony’s exacting standards, stricter than any Camp Lehigh drill sergeant. The linens are tucked neatly under the mattress, corners exactly on point. The flat expanse looks far too large for Steve alone, but he knows that the smell of Tony’s shampoo and aftershave wait for him on the pillows.

The need for comfort wins out. Not the physical comfort of the bed, it’s still too soft for his liking, but for that reassurance that comes from the familiar. He lies on top of the sheets, careful not to disturb them too much, crossing his ankles and turning his head ever-so-slightly into the cushions.

He shouldn’t have let Tony go off without at least trying to settle what was between them. He’d been angry, running too hot to think properly. Instead, he’d focussed on the only thing he ever really understood: the mission.

 _He_ doesn’t have any type of brainwashing to excuse that.

And Bucky. There’s only so many places in the world now that it’s still the day before. Maybe one missed call isn’t important. Maybe Buck, wherever he is, just fell asleep. Perhaps he’ll make it up in the morning, or just wait until next week and resume the schedule. It could be nothing.

It could be everything.

Almost more than Bucky missing check-in, is the knowledge that - promise or no promise - is knowing that Tony offered him the chance to do something about it. If something _has_ happened, having an idea where Bucky was, being able to get to him faster than anyone else, could make all the difference. By making Tony pull the plug on his research, Steve may have lost that chance. Surely keeping Bucky safe should mean more than a promise?

Some damn friend. 

Some damn _boy_ friend.

He wonders if it’s too late to phone Tony. He’s not even sure he wants to get into all the whys and wherefores tonight, but just to hear Tony’s voice - that little nasal twang he gets when he’s being sarcastic, the velvet softness of his murmurs. To listen and know that even if they’re not together, they _are_. 

Steve rolls, looking at the clock on Tony’s side of the bed. It’s closing in on 1am. No one calls at 1am, not even Tony; whose grasp of sociable hours is virtually non-existent.

Too late, Rogers. As always.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Want more innuendo and heart-breaking meta in your life? Why not visit me on [Tumbr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/opposablethumbs-on-ao3).


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tony is *that* guy (only he isn't), and Ross is an asshole.
> 
> Were you waiting for a qualifier? Nope. Ross is simply an asshole.

The phone at the other end of the line buzzes and then clicks as it is picked up. Tony hears the soft noise of Pepper clearing her throat down the line. She sounds sleepy. She probably was asleep. He should probably be asleep.

“Tone... Tony?” she says.

“Hey Pep!” Tony replies cheerfully, turning his phone to speaker and tossing it on the bed beside him.

“Tony, do you have any idea what time it is?” she groans.

Tony shrugs to himself. “I know what time it is here. What time is it there?”

“You have three PhDs and you can’t even calculate the time difference between Los Angeles and...” She pauses. “Where are you Tony?”

“In a hotel room,” Tony answers. “One of those ones with the big blue sign, you know? It’s quite nice. Guy at the front desk swapped me some bourbon for my watch.”

Pepper groans. “You’re drunk? For God’s sake, Tony, you know we have the September fund presentation to give tomorrow. Why have you been drinking?”

“A guy can’t drink two...” He looks at the depleted bottle of bourbon, “...ty-four ounces of liquor without having to explain himself?”

“No,” Pep says firmly. “He damn well can’t.”

Tony sighs, rolling onto his side and looking at the empty stretch of bed beside him. “I think I broke Steve. Me and Steve, I mean.”

He hears Pepper huff, a noise of complete lack of surprise. “What did you do?”

“Enough,” he says, sighing. “Not enough. I’m not sure. There’s this guy, you see...”

“You _cheated_ on Steve Rogers?”

“What? No!” Tony says, scowling at his phone. “It’s Steve’s guy.”

“Steve cheated on _you_?” Pepper’s voice sounds, if anything, more incredulous than before.

“Damn it, Pep. No one cheated on anyone. Not like that, anyway. Steve’s old war buddy: it turns out he’s still alive. I was trying to find him. But I got all a bit... me about it.”

“Well, I know how that goes,” replies Pepper.

“I betrayed his trust,” Tony says. “I was trying to help him, but I went behind his back to do it. I spied on him when I should’ve talked to him.”

“Well, I know how _that_ goes,” Pep repeats firmly.

“He’s just so perfect, Pep. I look at him like I used to look at you: why the hell would anyone this amazing want to be with me?”

“I want to say ‘thank you’, but...”

“I mean it. Don’t get me wrong, I know I’ve got the looks, the charm, the money...”

“The ego...”

“But none of that is important. He’s so good for me. And I want to be good for him. But I’ve screwed it up, like I always do. Like I did between us. Like I’ve done with every damn person I’ve cared about in my life.”

Pepper sighs. “Honestly, Tony, I am happy that you’ve found someone you can be with. You deserve that. But I can’t advise you here, anymore than I could fix what went wrong between us.”

Tony feels tears prick in his eyes, and his throat convulses. “Pep. Would you... forgive me? Would you take me back?”

The line is silent for a long moment. When Pepper speaks, he voice is cold; harshly controlled. “You are unbelievable, Tony. You call me in the middle of the night after I don’t hear from you in weeks, spin me some sob story, and then you _hit_ on me?”

“Pep, I...”

“Goodnight, Tony,” Pepper says. “I think I might sleep in tomorrow morning. You can handle the MIT talk on your own.”

She hangs up.

Tony stares at the dark screen of his phone and pretends that the tickling on his cheeks isn’t his tears finally falling. “That isn’t what I meant,” he whispers, knowing the futility. 

Just one more screw-up to add to the list.

****

One more screw-up.

Charlie Ernest Spencer. Age 19. A young man at the start of his life. A kid, really.

And Tony killed him. He had help, sure, but it was Tony’s idea to blow up the city, and it was his tech that made it happen.

His head pounds and the hotel room around him swirls, the bed that he is lying on momentarily seeming to undulate like an unsteady sea.

No. That’s not right. Lives were lost, but millions - perhaps billions - were saved. And while his global peacekeeping initiative had been a failure of such colossal proportions that the aftermath can be seen, quite literally, from space, he knows there are worse things coming.

Because there are much worse things out there than Ultron.

He shakes himself. 

Intellectually speaking, a single dead boy shouldn’t matter more than any of the other lives lost as a result of Avenger action. And there have been others, as Ross takes pains to remind him. But Charlie Spencer: he has a name, and a face, and a mom who has to struggle through every day waiting in vain to see him one more time. And more importantly he had a future - that precious thing over which Tony has declared himself master - and the Avengers took it away. 

_No_. Stop it. This is the headache talking. A fifth of cheap bourbon will do that to a guy. Add in the EM niggle from the BARF - he really has to find a better name - and the fact that he knows that by now Steve and the team will have landed in Nigeria. It’s no wonder he’s sensitive. He really wishes the two of them had spoken before they parted. He considered phoning him after Pep hung up on him, but he didn’t want to be _that_ guy, at least not twice in one night.

Always a sucker for punishment, Tony taps the side of the BARF glasses and feels the strange, vibrating swell that comes with the hippocampal link. He turns his thoughts to Steve, and it takes only the slightest flicker of electrical activity to resolve the man into ethereal being. Maybe it says more than it should that Tony imagined him in full uniform: an outfit that you think doesn’t leave much to the imagination but turns out you’re wrong. There’s dirt and blood on Steve’s suit, and it’s torn a little at the arm. Tony knows when this memory comes from - it’s right after Sokovia, on the deck on the helicarrier. It’s the moment, even through the sick haze of adrenalin, that he _knew_. And he should have said it then; but he didn’t. He had to be _him_. Had to make a joke, make light.

Swinging his legs off the bed, sitting then standing, Tony moves to where Steve is projected. He places himself back in the position they held at that moment, knowing the angle is slightly wrong because he’s not wearing the armour now. He taps the side of the glasses and the memory augments, Steve’s gaze tipping downwards. Faintly, Tony hears a beep, but discounts it as phantom auditory feedback from the neuronal stimulation. He places his palm against Steve’s jaw, cupping his face. There is no tactile sensation there, but the hologram reacts by leaning in to the touch.

“I love you,” Tony whispers.

The hologram flickers just slightly, but stays silent. Of course it does, Tony has no point of reference for what Steve would say in that situation.

“Yeah, you’re kinda creepy.” The voice comes from behind Tony. He jumps, tearing off the glasses and spinning towards the sound. His hand flashing to his watch and the emergency repulsor glove it houses

“Rhodes!” he yelps when his eyes alight on the intruder. “What are you doing here?”

Rhodey smiles lopsidedly: a grin at both of their expenses. He moves further into the room, a pronounced limp in his stride; bulky padding at his knee suggesting a bandage there. “Took a tumble in training,” he says, noticing the direction of Tony’s gaze. “Got distracted by one of Wanda’s light-shows, connected with Falcon mid-air just as the suit’s power cycled. One in a million that something like that would knock out my flight control, but...”

“I’ve been saying for awhile you need a back-up,” Tony says, frowning.

“C’mon man,” Rhodes whines, “the suit’s bulky enough as it is, you really want to put in another redundancy? And anyway, it’s done now. Lightning doesn’t strike twice.”

Tony snorts. “I could quote you the statistics showing that’s bullshit.”

Rhodey looks at him.

“Seriously, last year alone the spire on the Empire State got hit ninety-six times. I kept count.”

Rhodey looks at him some more.

Tony sighs. “All right,” he says. “Spit it out. Why’re you here? And more importantly, _how_? Did the receptionist just give you a key or something?”

Rhodes flashes a keycard with another self-conscious grin. “You remember I’m an Avenger now, right? I’m on TV, people know my face. They trust it.”

“You do have a trustworthy face,” Tony agrees reluctantly. He crosses to the table and pours a tumbler of water. He offers it to Rhodey. The airman nods acceptance and limps his way over to the table, taking a seat at it. Tony fills himself a glass and sits down opposite. “So that’s the how,” he says, after taking a sip, “now for the why.”

“Pepper called me,” Rhodes replies.

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“Right.”

“I believe the two of you had words last night.”

“We spoke, sure,” Tony says casually.

“Mmm hmm,” Rhodes hums. “She’s pretty pissed with you. Wouldn’t say why, just that I should come to the Bay State and kick you in your sorry ass.”

Tony narrows his eyes at him.

“I’m paraphrasing,” Rhodey says. “Pep was a lot more colourful.”

“Yeah, you look at her and think butter wouldn’t melt. Then she goes ahead and swears like a sailor.”

“I tell you,” Rhodey says, “I blushed. So what’d you do to her?”

“Nothing!” huffs Tony. “I mean, I called her stupidly late and...”

“And..?”

The back of Tony’s neck prickles. “And she maybe thinks I was hitting on her.”

“Were you?” Rhodey says, arching his eyebrow.

A sudden burst of anger surges through Tony. He shoves himself away from the table and gets to his feet. “What is it with my friends thinking I’m an asshole? No, Rhodes, I wasn’t hitting on Pepper. I was sad and drunk and lonely and I just needed someone to tell me I haven’t completely fucked my life up. Is that really so hard to understand?!” Tony realises his voice has risen to near a shout, but the look on Rhodey’s face is as inscrutable as ever. He takes a couple of deep breaths. “Sorry, I just... things are tough at the moment and... and it’s not easy _not_ being Mr. Perfect.” Embarrassment drives him back to his seat like a chastised child.

Rhodes considers him for a long time, eyes slightly pinched and deep in thought. “You know,” he says at last, “in the twenty four years I have known you, that is the only time you have ever apologised to me.”

“Yeah, well. I’m hungover. Don’t get used to it.”

Rhodey shakes his head. “No, it isn’t that. You’re like my family, Tony, you get a pass for being a jerk to me. What bothers me is that you’re trying to be someone you aren’t. You _aren’t_ Steve. Hell, none of us are. But even he isn’t perfect, you know. He gets stuck on things, unable to move from a plan of action. And he’s arrogant, too. Sure he hides it better behind that ‘sir and ma’am’ attitude, but the guy thinks he’s right every bit as much as you do.”

Tony chuckles weakly. “Thanks, Rhodes. You always know exactly what to say.”

“It’s a gift.” Rhodey smiles, wide and toothsome. “So,” he says, “what’s your plan for the rest of the day? Feel like hitting some of the old haunts?”

Tony pulls his face. “I’m not really a nostalgia guy.”

“Says the man who spent the GDP of a small nation making a memory device.”

Tony’s gaze falls on the glasses, lying where they fell. One of the lenses is chipped. It’ll have to be fixed. “I’ll need to report to DC before the mission in Lagos. Ross likes me there to hold his hand.”

“You want company?”

“Rhodes, if you were anyone other than my friend I might accept. But trust me, you don’t want to be there. It’s like... you remember Prof Zarok’s lectures in computational fluid dynamics? Well, imagine that but with more evil genius vibes.”

Rhodey whistles, impressed.

“You could drop me off on the way if you like, though,” continues Tony, standing up once again and offering his hand to Rhodey. “I’m pretty sure I don’t want to add a DUI to the list of things that suck in my life right now.”

Rhodes accepts, letting Tony help him to his feet. “I can do that,” he says.

“Sure you’re okay to drive with your knee like that?”

“Drive?” Rhodes snorts. “I’ve got a jet parked on the roof.” He leans on the arm Tony offers, and turns another broad grin on him. “Don’t need my legs to fly.”

****

The sun is barely up and Ross is already waiting for Tony in his subterranean lair/government funded observation post. “Well hello Tony,” he says, his voice dripping sour honey, “thank you for joining us so early. I'm sure a man like you doesn't normally see this time of the day.” 

“A man like _me_?” Tony replies, flinging his jacket untidily on the table in the way he knows drives the military man nuts.

Ross’s jaw ripples, but he forces out a shrug. “Retired,” he says.

The accusation hits Tony like a cuff to the face. “I'm not retired, _General_ ,” he says deliberately emphasising Ross’ former rank. “I'm just non-combatant. After all, someone has to be the Avengers liaison, and Cap is far too polite to tell you to stick things up your ass.”

Ross screws up his nose. “Yes, I can see how that might be more of your domain.”

With great difficulty, Tony refuses to take the bait. 

“Well, I’ve done my part,” Ross continues; mouth a thin line of disappointment. “Security services are hanging back. I still think that this should have been a joint venture, and I don’t care for receiving intel almost a week late. Rumlow is a high-value asset. Our best should be in play.”

“The best _are_ in play,” Tony states. “The team are most effective when they’re not looking over their shoulders.” 

“So what _is_ the good Captain's plan of action?”

Tony licks his lips. It’s a question Ross normally asks of him, and _normally_ he has an answer. “I don't know,” he answers reluctantly.

Ross doesn’t even attempt to hide the smug smile that spreads over his face. “Trouble in paradise?” he asks.

Tony is still not rising to it.

“I had another engagement. I wasn’t there when the strategy was finalised.”

“He didn’t even whisper a little something in your ear before you left? How disappointed you must’ve been,” Ross says slyly.

Tony isn’t going to... no, screw it. He absolutely is. He gets right up in Ross’ face, seeing the secretary’s staff come alert in his peripherals and giving precisely no fucks about it. “Do you really think that when Steve and I are together the only thing we have on our minds is how to run the next mission?”

“I can't say I particularly care to imagine what the two of you do when you're alone.” The distaste in Ross’ expression drives Tony on, anger making him reckless in both what he says and how loud he says it.

“See, that's where I think you're lying to yourself,” he sneers. “I think you want to know all about it, or you wouldn’t keep bringing it up. So just ask. We’re _friends_ , after all Ross. I’ll tell _you_. All the juicy, sweaty, _writhing_ details. Who does who; how we both like it. You know, Steve has this spot behind his knee that if I suck on just right I can make him...”

“ _Mister_ Stark,” Ross says firmly, “I think we should just focus on the matter in hand.”

Tony pulls out one of the chairs and seats himself. “If that’s what you want, _Sir_.” He checks his watch. 6:30am. That makes it 11:30 in Nigeria. _Any time now_. Rumlow’s pattern is to strike when there are as many people around as possible: civilian cover, maximum confusion. It’s impossible to admire the man, but he’s undoubtedly effective at what he does.

Ross clears his throat, a sound that in anyone else might be construed as an attempt to overcome embarrassment. “If your team does its job properly, I might even get away in time for eighteen holes with the president,” he says.

A wide, wicked grin breaks out on Tony’s face. “Oh I do hope so,” he says. “I hear golf is terribly good for you.”

The slight flush in Ross’ cheeks says he takes Tony’s meaning. Good. He wants to be a dick? That’s a game Tony knows how to play.

“Sir!” one of the agents calls over. “We’re picking up chatter. Reports of an explosion.”

Ross turns on the man. “Give me details, agent.”

“There's nothing official yet sir, just civilian channels; mostly social media. We'll have a surveillance satellite in range in approximately fifteen minutes.”

Tony fights the pounding of his heart to retain the semblance of calm. He reaches for his jacket and takes out his phone. Ross has been allowing him to keep it as a show of faith, and Tony has avoided taking advantage out of good manners and lack of motive. But an explosion in a populous area kind of negates any compunction Tony might have against hacking their system. He presses a few inputs on his screen and then tosses the interface out and on top of Ross's infrastructure. 

As all the screens switch to Tony's control, Ross turns a furious scowl on him. 

“Sorry Mr Secretary, but your Satcom network sucks. Mine's better.”

He connects into the Stark Satellite Web, focuses the array’s full power on Nigeria. He zooms in to city level, switches to IR. A massive signature flares up right in the middle of downtown. He closes in on it, turning back to optical sensors. Block. Street. A building in flames: its south side devastated.

“Have you declared this technology to the state department?” Ross asks coolly. 

Tony ignores the question. “I'm patching us into the team's com line now,” he says instead. There's a crackle and then overlapping voices: Steve wanting an eta for fire and rescue, Sam on crowd control. Someone is crying. Tony thinks it might be Wanda but it’s impossible to know for sure. 

Natasha speaks over it all, deliberate and filled with ice. “We have to look for Rumlow.”

“No.” It's Steve, his voice strained. “Our responsibility is to look for survivors.”

Sam cuts in. “We don't know how much damage the building sustained. We rush in there, the rescue services might just have four extra bodies to dig out of the rubble.”

Four. That means the whole team made it through at least. One of the many knots in Tony's stomach unravels itself. 

“Do we have a line in?” Ross snaps at him. 

“ _I_ do,” Tony replies, pulling the audio back to his phone and sandwiching the phone between his shoulder and his ear. “Steve?” he says. “Steve, I need to know what's going on.”

“Tony?” There's a slight hitch in Steve's voice, a wave of relief that he can't quite contain. 

“I'm here Steve. Are you or the team injured?”

“No. No,” Steve replies. He sounds more shaken than Tony has ever heard him. “But we have likely casualties on the ground and major damage to a public building. His voice drops further. “It's bad, Tony,” he says. “We need... I need...”

“What's he saying?” Ross demands. 

Tony shakes his head and waves Ross off. He lifts the phone away from his ear for a moment, just long enough to mobilise the Stark Relief Support team. “I have people en route,” he says, somehow managing to keep his voice level. “Now tell me what happened.”

He hears Steve take a deep breath, steadying himself. “It was Rumlow, he had an explosive vest. He detonated it, tried to take me out with him. Wanda contained the initial blast but... lost control on the lift. Her vortex connected with a building, we think it’s a governmental office. But Tony...” Steve’s voice cracks again. “Rumlow said something about Bucky and I... I...”

“Steve...” Tony cautions. He might have the room under control, but this is far from a secure line.

Steve sucks in a sharp breath. “Okay, right, yeah,” he says. “I understand.”

Something in his tone says he doesn’t, but Tony can’t risk reassuring him without Ross hearing things he shouldn’t. “Just... come home, Steve,” he says. “Let the response team do their jobs.”

Tony hears the first part of a protest and then a sigh. “Affirmative,” Steve replies, sounding defeated.

Tony wants nothing more than to promise him it’ll be okay, but he can see from the storm of activity beginning around him that it really isn’t. He ends the connection, gripping his phone just a little too tightly as he looks up and finds Ross’s eyes boring into him.

“Remember that mistake I mentioned?” Ross says. “I think you’ll find your friends just made it.”

Tony stares back, eyes narrowed at the smug son of a bitch before him. “Secretary Ross, Sir” he says at last. “Stick it up your ass.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm always excited for new buddies. Why not come say hi on my [tumblr](https://opposablethumbs-on-aO3.tumblr.com)? Asks are open (anons, too!), so feel free to hit me up with questions. I assure you, there's very little I love more than chatting fandom.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After Lagos, Steve needs to be with someone who'll tell him he's an idiot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note, this chapter includes a representation of end-stage care in a nursing setting (in line with canon).

The airstrip is outside the city, but not far enough to hide the dark plume of smoke rising into the sun-bleached sky. So far, the rescue teams have found four bodies. It's too soon to know if any are those is Rumlow; the burns from the blast making identification near impossible. They’ve only covered a few floors yet, so there's every chance of more casualties as they break further into the devastated building.

Steve stands on the ramp to the quintet, looking back at the city. Sam is already on board. Natasha is sitting with Wanda, her arm around the younger woman's shoulder, talking to her quietly and calmly. Providing support and reassurance. Telling her it isn't her fault. As team leader, Steve knows that should be his job. But he can't; he just doesn't have it in him right now. All he can do is hold the self-recriminations inside, playing the incident over and over in his mind. He should've recognised that look in Rumlow's eyes, the willingness to sacrifice everything for vengeance. If he'd acted faster, Wanda wouldn't have needed to intervene.

But Rumlow's voice echoes through his skull - your pal, your buddy, your Bucky - and he's frozen again. He's twenty-three and watching Bucky fall away from the train, unable to do anything. They’re seventeen and Buck's hauling his ass out of yet another fight. And the year before, on their first double date (Bucky's idea obviously): Steve sees in the girl’s smile that he won't always be the centre of Bucky’s world.

And he's also hearing Tony's voice, the bitter tone of it at the mention of Bucky's name, and knowing that maybe if he cared just a little less about a guy from a lifetime ago, none of this would be happening. But he can't help it. He can’t change how important Buck is to him, any more than he could switch off his feelings for any of the people he has loved in his broken lifetime. And for them, he’s given and given and given, and it’s still not been enough.

Nat has finally coaxed Wanda off the tarmac, guiding her gently up the metal slope to the craft. As they draw level with Steve, he reaches out and touches the Sokovian's arm. As he does, Natasha steps away and Steve helps the young woman into the jet. He turns back to Natasha, sees the compassion on her face.

“It wasn't your fault, Steve,” she says. “And it isn't hers either. If she'd not done what she did there would've been at least as many caught in the blast. You among them.”

Steve shakes his head, unable to agree but knowing she's right.

“You'll feel better once we get back to the compound,” she promises, squeezing his hand briefly. “It's all fresh now. But you know as well as I do that collateral is inevitable when you're dealing with HYDRA. They did this, not you.”

Steve closes his eyes. If he stopped to think of what HYDRA has cost, even just him personally, he's not sure he would have the strength in his serum-enhanced body to continue. He opens his eyes again and looks at Natasha. “I know everyone's eager to get back, but do you think you could drop me somewhere on the way?”

Nat's brow draws down in a frown, little wrinkles bunching across the bridge of her nose. “I mean, sure,” she says. “but...”

“There's something I have to do.”

“No problem, Steve,” Nat says. “Whatever you need.”

He hears the same softeners in her voice as she used with Wanda. Maybe he needs coddling. Maybe he needs to be told to shake it off, or even to call him out on what a jackass he’s been. He doesn't know _what_ he needs, but he knows someone who will.

****

“Oh, Mr. Rogers, I’m glad I caught you.”

Steve turns towards the greeting, seeing Marissa - one of the nurses that works here at the care home - bustling down the hall. She has black, frizzy hair pulled back in a bun and the wrinkles around her eyes tell of a life spent in laughter. She has a full voice, just the right side of loud, and a lilt to her accent that comes from time spent in both Jamaica and London.

Steve smoothes his hands over his t-shirt. He wishes the street clothes he kept on board the jet were a little less wrinkled. Still, Marissa doesn’t seem to notice as she draws close.

“We haven’t seen you for a little while,” she says, a hint of reprimand in her tone.

“Yes, I’ve been uh, busy,” he says.

“You young folk with your work ethic,” she says, chuckling fruitily. One of the things Steve particularly likes about Marissa is that if she has any idea who he is, she doesn’t show it. She pats his arm gently. “But you’re here now and that’s what matters.”

Steve swallows. “Is something wrong?”

“Not ‘wrong’,” Marissa says with a shrug, “just inevitable. Ninety-five is as good an age as any of us could ask for, and a life like hers... well, I imagine she’s told you.”

“A bit,” he replies with a small smile.

“Her body is failing,” Marissa says quietly, compassion painted in her brown eyes. “She’s in and out, but the bad days come more than the good ones.”

While his mind grapples to accept what he’s known for a long time, his heart denies the possibility of loss. “Which is today?”

“Oh, I’m sure any day you visit will be a good day,” Marissa assures. She leads him to a side corridor and a closed door. “We moved her here. It’s quieter than the main wing.” She pats his arm once again and then leaves him to his visit.

Taking a deep breath, he knocks on the door and then opens it, stepping inside. He forces a smile on to his face. “Hey Peg,” he says.

Lying on the bed, amid clean white linen, is Peggy. After a pause she turns her head towards the door. She blinks, momentarily failing to recognise him, then a smile spreads over her face. “Steve! I thought you’d forgotten about me.”

Steve moves further into the room, coming to stand at Peggy’s bedside. He stoops and kisses her on the forehead. “My best gal? Never.”

Peggy chuckles. “I’m not so senile yet that I’ve forgotten you have someone else to step out with besides an old woman. How is Tony?”

Steve turns away, walking to the window. He looks out over the Thames, its water turned golden in the early evening sun. “The view is better from this side of the building,” he says. Behind him he hears the sound of Peggy trying to pull herself to sitting. He hurries back to her side, hands lifting her gently. She waves him off but allows him to put an extra pillow behind her back.

Once she is settled, she turns her still-sparkling fully on him. “So what’s happened?” she asks.

Steve suddenly finds the floor terribly interesting. “I don’t know what you mean,” he says.

“Oh Steve,” Peggy sighs. “Last time you were here, the second I mentioned Tony your face lit up. This time...”

Steve huffs out a laugh. “There I go, forgetting what a sharp cookie you are.”

Peggy smiles softly at him. “Not as sharp as I was. But you’re not hard to read, Steve. You wear your heart on your sleeve.” Her smile melts into a slight frown. “A sleeve which you might have pressed before you came calling, by the way.”

A prickle of heat creeps up the back of Steve’s neck. “Uh, yeah. Sorry about that,” he says. “I was just...”

“On your way back from a mission,” Peggy concludes. “High stakes, life and death, fate of the world occasion, I presume?”

Steve pulls a chair over to Peggy’s beside, careful to avoid the trail of tubes leading from the machine on her dresser to under her sheets. He sits down, suddenly realising how weary he is. Ruefully, he remembers Marissa’s words. Perhaps it’s time he took a rest: he has a couple of years on Peggy, after all.

“I made a mess, Peg,” he sighs.

“I guessed that,” she says. “But are we talking about the mission or Tony?”

“How about both?” Steve replies.

She reaches out and takes his hand. “Maybe you should start at the beginning?” she suggests.

****

“Yes,” Peggy says, nodding her head slowly. “You’ve made a real pig’s ear of the whole thing, haven’t you?”

Steve blinks, taking her meaning more from her tone than the words themselves. “So I’m a jackass?” he says.

“Oh, absolutely,” she says. She clears her throat, stifling a cough. “Good grief, I used to think it was women that you were hopeless at talking to, but it’s everyone, isn’t it?”

“Talking isn’t my strong suit,” Steve replies.

The barest of twitches lifts Peggy’s eyebrow and Steve immediately feels a fierce blush in his cheeks. “Peggy!” he scolds.

“Please, Steve. Not all of us slept through the sixties.”

Steve hides his face behind his hands and groans slightly.

“There, there,” Peggy soothes, not entirely sympathetically.

He drops his hands and stares at her lined face. “You always know exactly what to say to me,” he concedes.

“Age and experience. It gives you such a wonderful perspective on things.”

Steve takes a deep breath. “I feel like... things are slipping through, Peg,” he says quietly. “Like I'm not in control anymore. First with Tony, then the situation with Rumlow. And then there’s Bucky.”

“And then there’s Bucky,” Peggy agrees. There’s something in her tone that catches his ear.

“What?” he asks. “You think Tony was right to go after him?”

“Maybe. Maybe not. But the fact that Tony was prepared to find him shows just how much he cares for you.”

Steve frowns. “I don’t understand,” he says.

“I know,” Peggy says throatily. She wets her lips, and Steve realises with a guilty start how long he’s kept her talking. He fills a cup of water and helps her guide it to her mouth. She takes several delicate sips then nods slightly, and Steve puts the glass back down on the corner of the dresser.

Recovered, Peggy speaks again. “Even our time wasn’t so innocent that I didn’t wonder once or twice if there wasn’t something more between you boys,” she says, waving off his protest. “And that’s because there _is_. I don’t know exactly what, and I don’t think you do either. And if your Tony is as much of a genius as you tell me he is, he will have figured that much out as well.”

Steve’s mouth flaps a little. “I would never... I mean, they both...”

“No one but you expects you to be perfect, Steve,” Peggy reminds. “But you _are_ a good man. And that means you make mistakes.”

An image of the smoking building in Lagos crowds its way into his mind. “I make a mistake and people die,” he says bitterly.

Peggy shrugs, lying back against her pillows and closing her eyes. “People die,” she says. “One day soon, I'll die. But I lived and I fought and I was loved. In the end that's all anyone can ask for. You're loved too, Steve. Don't let what's happened...” her voice begins to fail. “...in the past stop you... from realising that.”

Tears blind Steve as she falls quiet, her breathing slow as though she is asleep. He climbs to his feet and feels his way up to her seamed cheek, stooping to press a kiss to her forehead one more time.

“Goodbye Peggy,” he says

Peggy's mouth moves silently for a moment before her voice catches, and even though it's weak, it's every bit as sweet as that young woman's Steve knew all those years ago.

“Goodbye, my darling” she says.

He stumbles out of the room, closing the door and leaning heavily against it. He gulps air, heart racing and hands shaking. Slowly, he brings his body back under his control. He scrubs at his eyes, knowing he can’t hide the fact that he’s been crying but wanting at least to erase the tears’ tracks down his face.

He makes his way to the nurses’ station, grateful to find it empty but for Marissa. She looks up from her paperwork and cup of tea.

“You were in there a long time,” she says. “Has she just gone off now?”

Steve swallows and nods. “Just now,” he agrees.

Marissa smiles. “She was waiting for you,” she says.

Finding himself unable to answer, he nods again. The telltale sting in his eyes wells again and then hot tears spill over. Marissa gets to her feet, moving to his side of the desk and folding him into a bosomy hug.

“I know it's hard,” she says, “but she's lived a good life. Had more adventures than most of us dream of.” She pulls back, hands squeezing his biceps. “And there aren't many ninety-five year olds get handsome young gentleman callers. She’s a lucky girl.” Marissa steps away and winks and Steve chuckles slightly, self-consciously; sniffing.

He takes out his phone. There are missed calls on it - lot of missed calls. He’ll deal with them shortly. “Can I ask a favour of you Marissa?” he says. “Would you contact me when... anything happens. This is my number. You can get me on it day or night.”

“I can, Mr. Rogers. Or Ms. Carter has a niece that I could pass your number to?”

Steve shakes his head. “No... that’s fine. When the time comes, I’d rather hear it from a friend.”

Marissa smiles softly at him. “I will do, Mr. Rogers.”

“Steve,” he corrects.

A little flicker of recognition flashes in Marissa’s eyes. “Steve,” she repeats, with a curious smile.

Steve leaves her and the care home behind, stepping out into the humid London air. He pulls his phone out once more, presses to return the one number that made the many calls, and braces himself for the inevitable tongue-lashing he’s about to get.

The phone at the other end picks up before the third ring. “Feeling better?” Tony’s voice isn’t sharp or condescending; it’s a simple, honest question.

The expectation of a fight goes out of Steve in a long, silent sigh. “A little,” he says. “I just needed...”

“I know,” Tony finishes for him softly. “Widow told me where you put down. And I get it, Steve, I do. But we need you back here. There’ve been... developments. The UN...” His voice trails off. “No,” he says, more firmly, “just come home. You are coming home, right?”

“On the next flight,” Steve confirms. He hears Tony breathe out, relief in his exhalation. “Are you back at the compound?” he asks.

“Not yet. You’ll probably beat me there. There’re some things I need to wrap up here in DC. Could take a while.”

Steve licks his lips. “It’s bad?”

“It’s not great. I’m handling it best as I can. I’ll... I’ll tell you more when I know more.”

Steve can hear Peggy’s words over the finality in Tony’s voice. “Tony... I...”

“Just come home,” Tony repeats, and hangs up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just so you know, I think that Peggy's decline and death was massively under-represented as an influence on Steve's behaviour in CACW. But that's the kind of rant I have on [tumblr](https://opposablethumbs-on-aO3.tumblr.com/). Why not join me? My inbox needs YOU.
> 
> Also, sorry it's a little late. I _may_ have been writing Spaces 3.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meanwhile, in
> 
> ## BUCHAREST...
> 
> Bucky needs a second pair of underpants.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter specific notes/warnings: the alternate POV of the pre-serum!Steve flashback/dream sequence and pseudo Stucky from [The spaces in between, chapter 7](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6513589/chapters/15039079).

The rickety old stove squeaks and grinds as Bucky pulls it away from the wall. Getting down on his hands and knees, he follows the copper tubing back to a valve. He reaches behind himself to recover a small cylinder of propane, and fastens it in to the valve, setting the locking nut tight with his metal fingers. Standing, he dusts down his knees and then presses the ignition for the hob. There’s a tic-tic-tic and nothing more. Chewing his lower lip, he fiddles with a few of the dials, setting all four to maximum. He tries again and, after a few more tense clicks, one of the rings bursts into life.

The flood of flame into the darkening room startles him, but it’s not an unpleasant surprise. He closes his eyes for a moment and allows the warmth to seep into him. The faintest smile tugs at his cheek, a strange enough expression to make him open his eyes again. Lifting his flesh hand to his mouth, he traces the curl of his lips; the swell of them and the heat where they join. He used to smile a lot, he remembers that: at girls, at guys, at his sister, at his mom. He used to think he could smile himself out of almost any situation. He’s pretty sure he smiled himself into a few as well...

With a sigh, he turns off the stove. The heat evaporates as quickly as it came. Sure, Costel - the boss at the building site - was impressed with his work today and told him to come back in the morning, but that’s no reason to be wasteful. The gas, some soap, and a few groceries are a good start. He even has a little bit of his wage left over, which he absolutely ought to put to one side. He really shouldn’t spend every last dime. The Bucky from before the War and before the Soldier had been like that: money came in, money went out. In those days, any surplus cash he found himself with invariably went on one of three things: booze, girls, or Steve. But that was then and this is now. He has different priorities these days. 

But.

So Steve is thousands of miles away, and girls… well, that’s not really been something Bucky’s thought about for longer than he wants to admit. But booze. Booze is something he could get behind. He glances over at the small heap of crumpled notes and coins dumped on the table, eyeballing how much is left. It looks about enough for a bottle of something not entirely lethal. Not that he’s been looking or anything, but, you know…

He sighs as he scoops up the pile of cash and thrusts it in his pocket. He’ll start saving tomorrow.

Locking the front door behind him, Bucky makes his way down the concrete stairwell and out into the street. Even though it’s getting late, there are people about. Some might find it oppressive, being surrounded by a constantly beating wave of humanity, but Bucky likes it. After all, it’s easier to conceal yourself in a crowd. But there’s also a little bit of Brooklyn to it; in the hustle and bustle that extends down every street. It’s in the washing lines strung out between buildings, and the kids racing down alleys playing chase. He’s walking down those same alleys tonight, and the sounds and smells speak of very different activities happening in the shadows. He keeps his head up and his eyes locked forward. He doesn’t want to give anyone any ideas that will get them hurt.

After a bit of weaving, he finds his way to a row of shops and bars he spotted on his way home from work: local establishments, not for the tourists. In the middle of the row is what he’s here for: a liquor store. It’s brightly lit interior shines out onto the street, advertising the alcoholic wonderland within. For all that, the store is empty, but for a cashier standing behind the counter. He has a portable TV perched next to the register and seems to be watching some kind of disaster film: a building in flames, aliens swarming the skies, people running and crying with ash-streaked faces. Bucky shudders. That’s not what he calls entertainment. 

A gaggle of women passing by pull him out of his reverie. One stops to wink and blow a kiss at him. The others giggle and then tug her into a bar a few buildings down. It’s the kind of place where the windows have long since stopped being transparent, but Bucky can hear the life within spilling out onto the street. The contrast between the bar and the liquor store couldn’t be more pronounced, and maybe that it isn’t a coincidence. Once you get thrown out of one, you can just make your way into the other.

Briefly he considers the idea. Instead of a cheap bottle of vodka and noodles with his notebook, wouldn’t it be a nicer - a more normal - thing to sit in a bar and sink a couple of beers? Maybe chat to those girls and try and forget some of the horrors that he’s seen. 

He turns away from the bar and heads into the liquor store.

****

It’s a relatively easy round trip to and from the liquor store, and while his pocket is lighter, the plastic bag swinging in his hand is reassuringly heavy. It seems strange to him to walk down the street with his bottle on show. He remembers when booze had to be sold in paper bags, so no one knew what you were carrying. For that matter, he remembers Prohibition; mainly for the lengths his mom went to to hide the last of the sherry from Uncle Joe. 

He performs the dance of the parcel on his doorstep; juggling the precious bundle from his flesh hand to his metal one, because _of course_ he's holding the bag on the same side as the pocket he put his keys in. But just as the brass key starts turning in the lock, he hears a quiet shuffle behind him. His muscles tense, but he recovers almost immediately, giving whoever it is less than a second to launch their attack. Spinning violently, dropping the bag to the ground, he pulls the gun he keeps stashed in the back of his jeans out and levels it at the source of the noise. 

The intruder looks first down the barrel of the Glock 26, and then up into Bucky's eyes. Bucky sees wrinkles, and grey-green irised eyes that sit in amongst them. Distantly he recognises that it’s an old lady. But the hammering of his heart drowns out rational thought, and he feels his finger tighten on the trigger as she takes a step forward and puts a hand on his arm.

“You are safe, Iacob,” she says, and she says it in English.

Somehow, that cuts through the adrenalin. He blinks at the woman. “He... Helena?” he stammers. A wave of nausea passes through him, almost staggering him. “Oh God,” he says, arm dropping to his side, the gun barely still in his grasp. “I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.”

Slowly, Helena nods. “You are hiding,” she says flatly, not making it a question. Even so, he goes to protest but she cuts him off, her voice soft and full of sadness. “It is a look I know well,” she explains. “You have nothing to fear from me. I will tell no one.”

Maybe it’s something in how she says it, her almost uncanny calm, but he believes her. He believes, but he doesn’t understand. “Why would you do that for me?” he asks. “I could be a bad guy. Hell, I _am_ a bad guy.”

 **“Bullshit,”** she swears, switching back to Romanian. A small chuckle escapes her. **“Bad men do not leave the safety on when they point a gun at you.”**

Bucky lifts the gun - careful not to move too fast or to aim it in her direction - and studies it. She’s right: the ILS is engaged, obvious to anyone familiar with the design. The Soldier would certainly not miss something like that. So why hadn’t he made the weapon live?

_Because I don’t do that kind of thing anymore._

Suddenly he realises that for almost all the time he’s been standing there, Helena has had hold of his arm. His _metal_ arm. Her heavy-knuckled fingers press into his sleeve firmly, and she can’t have failed to feel the lack of flesh beneath. He looks down at where she grips him then meets her gaze again. She smiles a little, pats his arm and then lets her hand fall. There’s no disgust in her eyes, and - perhaps even more thankfully - no pity.

 **“You should check you did not break your bottle,”** she reminds, faintly chastising.

Sheepishly, although he recognises that as woefully inadequate, he tucks his gun into his pants and scuttles about for his vodka. He scoops up the bag. Somehow it’s not torn and there’s neither sloshing nor the crunch of broken glass. “It, uh... survived,” he says.

Helena’s smile teeters on a smirk. **“That’s good,”** she says. **“Wasting alcohol would have been unforgivable.”**

At last he notices the sack of rubbish propped against the wall next to Helena’s door, a few pieces spilled out from the top. He stoops and collects them, tying the bag off. **“Please,”** he says, **“let me take this out for you.”**

 **“No need,”** she says as he stands back up. **“At my age it is nice to still be able to accomplish things for yourself.”**

 **“It is,”** Bucky agrees.

Helena chuckles. She picks up her bag and moves off down the hall, leaving Bucky to finish unlocking his door and haul his sorry ass inside.

 _What the hell was he thinking?_ Is what he thinks as he leans bodily against the other side of the door, pushing it closed with his weight. Going for his weapon like that; seeing assassins in neighbours doing chores? It’s one heck of a way to blow your cover, Buck. All he can do is thank whatever powers there might be that he found the only little old lady in the land who’s familiar enough with firearms to call his bluff. He’ll have to find a way to make it up to her, if you even can make up for something like that. He doubts there are any ‘sorry I pulled a gun on you’ gift cards in the local five and dime.

On the way back from the liquor store, he’d almost convinced himself he should’ve followed that girl into the bar. He’d rationalised that maybe the man he was can’t be forgiven, but he can try and be a different man now. Is it so wrong for him to want more than an empty room and a lonely bottle?

Yes. Yes it is. Because he’s still the type of person who goes out with a gun tucked in his trousers. And he can tell himself it’s for protection, or in case he has to run at a moment’s notice, but the truth is he carries it because the idea of being without it brings on a cold sweat. Until that changes, this musty apartment is what he gets.

He sighs and moves down the hall. Dumping the bag on the counter, he pulls the Glock out again and tosses it alongside. Pulling the bottle free, he wastes no time breaking the seal. Cheap vodka fumes flood out, immediately assaulting his nostrils. Holy hell, the still Duggan ran when they were camped outside Lucca smelled better than this crud. He holds his breath and takes a deep swig straight from the bottle. The burn hits the back of his throat and he forces himself to swallow; because it’s that or spit it all over the counter, and Helena is right about wasting alcohol. Especially when it’s the first drink you’ve had in over seventy years.

He remembers reading somewhere - maybe in the DC museum exhibition, maybe in those files he liberated from the abandoned SRR warehouse in New York - that Steve can’t get drunk any more. Something about him burning booze off before it can affect him.

Bucky sure hopes he isn’t similarly afflicted. Whatever goop Zola stuck in him wasn’t quite as efficient as the stuff Steve got. He didn’t get much in the way of a boost in the height department, but it helps him heal faster and it keeps him fit. He fights off infection pretty well too. Before the war he could throw a pretty decent hook, but these days he can punch way above his weight. The metal arm helps as well in that department, although he prefers to hit things with his flesh hand: he feels a bit less like a freak that way.

A few further hefty swigs of vodka, and the booze either starts to improve or numbs his mouth into believing it has. He also has his answer as to whether it will affect him: the room starts to spin and the counter he’s leaning on seems closer to the ground than normal. Or maybe his legs are longer. He looks at his legs, but they’re the same as they ever were. More ‘an once, back in the day, he’d had appreciative things murmured in his ear about them. They’re just legs, though. If anything, they’re a bit stocky, a little too rounded about the thigh. Buying slacks was always a real chore, and Steve used to joke that at least being skinny made buying pants cheaper. That girl earlier had been kinda skinny, too, and if she’d had to pay by the yard for the little slip of a skirt she’d been wearing, she’d have come away with change from a single bill. 

“Let it go, Buck,” he mutters to himself.

It isn’t like he even found her particularly attractive, to get hung up like this. She was pretty enough, but her face was all but hidden behind her make-up. Dames in the forties did so much more with less. A bit of rouge; something around the eyes to make them look big and bright. Some put stain on their lips, others just bit them so they looked plump and pink and ready to kiss. Not that a good girl would do that kind of thing, at least not where just anyone could see. He can’t imagine kissing the girl from the bar. In fact, he can’t imagine kissing anyone. 

A horrible thought hits him. What if it’s been too long and he’s forgotten how? 

He takes a deep pull on the vodka, swallowing two; three times without coming up for air. Somehow, from the depths of the bottle comes an even more concerning idea. What if that’s his _thing_? Steve took the hit on not being able to get drunk; could it be that whatever Hydra did to him made him not be able to do... that. Perform. He hasn’t really expended any thought on it up ‘til now, but he’s been mostly _him_ for nearly two years and there’s been nothing in that department. Nothing. Not even an early morning buddy to make you have to get creative about peeing. 

The idea starts to gather momentum in his mind. Those sons of bitches probably did something to him, not wanting to risk him getting distracted from his ‘missions’. The stories he heard and the things he saw while he was in Siberia, he could believe it. The others, the elites, none of them ever showed anything than a total focus on destruction. And it’d be just his goddam luck. He can get wasted - he _is_ pretty wasted - but not-so-little Stevie Rogers still gets to get his rocks off. 

He takes one last draught of the bottle, emptying it. A fifth of vodka. Not bad. He’d almost be impressed with himself if the room would stop undulating. Seventy years and he can still hold his own.

And apparently holding his own is about all he’s got left.

He laughs bitterly. “You’re drunk, Buck,” he tells himself. Drunk, and rapidly heading out of maudlin into full blown self-pity. “Go to bed.”

On rubber legs, he sways his way over to his mattress. Listing back against the wall, he can feel the cold bricks even through his shirt. He wraps his arms around himself. Maybe, if Costel comes good tomorrow, he could buy a blanket. Right now though, he’s past caring. All he wants is to sleep. He’s not made it back to lying down yet, but the slouched position he’s in now is half-way there at least. He closes his eyes.

****

_The way Buck figures it, using his cousin’s bolt cutters to break the chain on the fire door isn’t **technically** illegal. It’s not like he’s breaking and entering. At worst, this is breaking and exiting. And what use is a fire escape if you can’t actually... escape from it? In a lot of ways, he’s performing a civic service._

_Steve’s fussing in the stairwell, so Buck shoots him a big smile and a wiggle of his eyebrows and then hops up onto the concrete parapet surrounding the flat roof of the apartment block._

_Now, something not a lot of people know is that Bucky hates heights. He **hates** them. But there’s something about being in Steve’s company that makes Buck want to be brave, or maybe just a little bit stupid. He closes his eyes against the five story drop before him and just breaths in the air. _

_“This city, man,” he says. “I love this city. No matter where life takes us, you know this will always be our home.”_

_“Be it ever so humble,” Steve agrees._

_Bucky smiles to himself. Maybe it isn’t about him being brave (or a bit stupid), maybe it’s about wanting Steve to be brave (and a little stupid) with him. Not that he **isn’t** , to either thing, but so many people in his life have tried to get him not to be. Even Steve’s mom had a tendency to try and mollycoddle him; always worrying he’d catch cold or treating him like he was made of glass. And he isn’t. Sure, he’s short and scrawny and kinda wheezy at times, but that doesn’t make him a goddam invalid. It **gets** to Bucky that people treat him that way. And while Steve makes no sign of letting their words influence him, Buck just likes to make sure._

_Turning, Bucky opens his eyes to find Steve watching him. “You gonna leave me up here on my own?” he asks, holding out his hand._

_Steve’s eyes narrow just a fraction, a look of ‘I know exactly what you’re doing, Buck’ in them. But he still rises to the challenge, clambering up onto the low wall at Bucky’s side._

_“Well ain’t that something?” Buck chuckles._

_Steve’s eyes are squeezed closed, his jaw clenched. “It sure is... something,” he agrees._

_A little devil of an idea comes to Buck. As quietly as he can, he hops back down onto the flat roof. He leans against a stack, feeling the warmth of the bricks where they still pick out the last of the summer sun, and waits._

_It takes Steve a surprisingly long time to realise what’s happened. When he does he turns his very best stern-face at Bucky, and it’s all Buck can do to keep from laughing. “Jackass,” he mutters darkly._

_“Takes one to know one,” Bucky shoots back from behind a smirk._

_Steve tuts, and Buck decides a gesture is in order. He shrugs off his coat and lays it out on the gravelly ground, nodding Steve towards it. In case the point is lost on his companion, Bucky gets down on it first. Steve’s not long behind him, and out of nowhere produces two candy suckers and a big red apple. Bucky hopes his eyes don’t go too big as he stares, and he clenches the muscles of his stomach to stop it from growling. With his dad between jobs right now, things at home are tighter than normal. They sold the car months ago, but that money’s all gone. And Becca, she’s at that age when you’re growing faster than your spoon can keep up with. A few missed meals won’t cause Bucky any real hardship, but that’s not to say he doesn’t get hungry. Steve passes over one of the candy sticks with a knowing smile, and Bucky gets stuck straight in. Maybe in front of anyone else, he’d be too shy to devour candy like a kid on Christmas, but he and Steve aren’t like that. No one else makes Buck feel so... accepted. Like there is nothing so bad he could say or do which could break the bond between them. Certainly not a little practical joke, or some bad manners and messy eating._

_The edge taken off his hunger, Buck lies back on the makeshift blanket and stares up at the stars that are just starting to prick their way through the darkening sky. With the setting of the sun, the temperature has started to tumble, the earlier summer stickiness giving way to a balmy night and almost chill wind. But the breeze brings fresher air, the scent of the bay not as oppressive as it was in the middle of the day. There’s a hint of cut grass on it, wafting up from the park at the end of the block. Bucky wriggles, settling himself in. The movement jostles Steve, sitting quietly beside him. Steve glances down at him, eyes tracking from Buck’s face, along his torso and then back up; probably wondering how Bucky can possibly be comfortable. Steve’s bony little frame doesn’t have the same kind of cushioning that Buck’s does. With a wry smile he stretches out his arm as a pillow for the smaller man._

_Steve sighs and joins him in a horizontal position, the curve of his neck cradled in the crook of Buck’s arm. It’s bittersweet, to be able to do this. As kids, they’d often go arm in arm, or share a seat at a table so they didn’t have to be apart. But as they got older, it just... wasn’t done. Sure, they would still top and tail if Steve slept over at Bucky’s house, but there were words for guys who lay together when they weren’t sleeping._

_Sometimes, a particularly forward lout would aim those words at them. Of course, whereas Bucky would simply smile and call the lout ‘sweetheart’, Steve would inevitably throw up his bony fists and ask him to step outside. He’d tell Steve: it’s just some dumb jerk, mouthing off. It doesn’t mean anything. What they are or aren’t is no one’s damn business but theirs. But Buck knows that’s easy for him to say. He’s the kind of guy who doesn’t have to look hard for a date, who had three years of boxing belts around his waist before he grew out of his weight category. He works down on the factory floor, hands in grease from 8 til 8. He’s everything society expects of a man. Steve, he always feels he has something to prove. And Buck gets it, he does, but it’s stupid. Steve is every bit as much of a man as Buck is. Hell, maybe more. There aren’t many guys would drag their hides in to work with pneumonia or take on a thug twice their size. Steve has done both without hesitation._

_Sudden fear seizes Bucky and forces him to swallow past a lump in his throat. He blinks away the prickles of tears in his eyes and stares up into the sky so Steve doesn’t see. These quiet times are growing fewer and further apart, and with the war picking up over in Europe, something tells Buck they’ll grow more distant still._

_“You ever wonder what’s out there?” Bucky says._

_“The future,” Steve replies certainly._

_Even as he thought about distance, Bucky realises he and Steve have moved closer. Somewhere in the silence of the shadows, the space between them has shrunk to nearly nothing. Buck has his arm curled up, fingers tingling as he teases lightly at the short hairs at Steve’s temple._

_**It doesn’t mean anything.** _

_Even as Buck thinks it, Steve turns his head and arches into the touch._

_And then it means... something. Something Buck isn’t sure of. Or maybe something he is. “Okay?” he whispers, because he’s not sure how much breath he has left in him._

_Steve nods, and Bucky decides to be brave - and **most definitely** a little bit stupid - as he leans in and joins their lips. _

_Steve’s eyes have fluttered closed, but as sweet as the kiss is, there’s nothing delicate to it. Steve isn’t shy. Hell, if Buck didn’t know better, he’d think the little punk has been getting in practice behind his back. Maybe it’s just because they know each other so well that they can read the little hints in each other’s body. The slightest catch of breath, a quiet moan, the gathering urgency in their actions. Steve’s fingers are curled into Buck’s shirt, pulling him closer. His knee has worked between Bucky’s thighs and if this were a girl, Buck would be certain she’d go only so far and then pull back. But Steve **isn’t** pulling back. This is like everything they do together, they commit to it with everything they are. To the end of the line._

_Bucky is almost embarrassed at how close that line is for him._

_Steve shifts his balance, rolling. Buck helps him in his goal, part lifting him to settle with his weight fully on Bucky’s lap._

_“Ain’t as light as you look, are you Stevie?” Bucky jokes, hands clasping his companion’s narrow hips._

_“Shut up, jerk,” Steve growls and he captures Bucky’s mouth once more._

_It’s perfect, and all too much. Steve makes a throaty noise of pleasure that rumbles up to their joined lips, and something breaks in Buck. Something... something..._

Bucky shudders himself awake.

“Ah... _fuck_ “, he gasps. He’s slumped in on himself, and there’s no mistaking the very particular sensation he’s currently experiencing. His head pounds and his mouth is dry.

Plus side, he thinks as his breathing returns to normal, Hydra didn’t make him a eunuch. Down side: now he has to do laundry with a hangover.

The dream lingers on his senses. He only ever remembers memories when he wakes, the forgotten things he is slowly recovering. But what he just experienced was part memory and part... something else. Everything up until the moment he asked if Steve was okay: that happened. But the rest? In reality, they stayed on that rooftop until the sky started to lighten and the birds began to chatter. They didn’t kiss; hadn’t pressed their bodies together. Steve’s fingers never played knowingly over his collarbone, or tugged at his clothing like he wanted to send it sailing down into the street. So why does it all feel so real?

Then it hits him. This dream _is_ a memory: but it’s a memory _of_ a dream. One that Bucky had had many times after that night. Because that was the night he’d realised he wanted Steve in an impossible way, a way that required them never being apart. It wasn’t the kind of thing you could talk about - at least not then - but more than once he’d woken up in that cramped apartment in Brooklyn, Steve’s name on his lips, and just _praying_ that the little punk was sound asleep enough not to hear from his side of the mattress. He’d hidden it in dames, and smothered it in stolen back-alley kisses, but the truth was: he loved Steve.

Maybe the man he is now can shape those words, if only for his notebook. Possibly leaving out the, uh, specific details of how this realisation came about.

Stripping down, he performs the necessaries: the lukewarm water that has stood all night in the pipes is a luxury when twinned with a washcloth and his new soap. It feels so good to be clean. Only after he redresses and finds himself back in the small kitchen does he realise that his gun has been sitting on the counter all night. Not held in his hand, not tucked in his trousers. Something left over from the dream tells him to be a little brave, and he takes the firearm and stows it in his rucksack, placing the rucksack in turn in a cupboard. He suffers a momentary flutter of panic, now conscious of the weapon’s absence against his skin, and knows that he’ll need to find somewhere more secure to keep it. The hope that he might not have to flee this place is growing in his chest, the prospect of this life getting a little brighter each day. He has a mattress, a working stove and oven, a working… other things, and a neighbour who - inexplicably - seems to like him.

“Don’t fuck it up for me, pal,” he tells himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on [tumblr](https://opposablethumbs-on-aO3.tumblr.com/)!


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Natasha has a strange definition of team bonding.

Steve sighs, not for the first time that afternoon, and stares into the polished surface of the desk before him. The blurry reflection of his own face looks back at him. Delicately, he traces the outline of his features with his finger.

“You really fucked this one up, pal,” he says softly.

“If you’re looking for someone to disagree with you, I’m not your girl.”

Steve’s head shoots up, eyes refocusing from short to medium distance. He blinks. “Widow?” he says. “How long have you been there?”

Natasha smiles without much mirth, straightening from her leant position in the doorway. “Oh, long enough to see you wallowing in self-pity. So... anything between three minutes and three hours?”

“I didn’t hear you.”

“I’m a spy,” she reminds.

“Fair enough.”

She crosses her arms. “You remember you have an office of your own to hide in, right? You don’t need to camp out in Stark’s.”

“I’m not...” he stops himself. Because he’s not what? Hiding? Feeling sorry for himself? Surrounding himself with Tony’s things in an attempt to not miss him so damn much? “I was trying to see if I could find any hints on what he’s been doing all this time in DC.”

Natasha shrugs. “You could just call him.”

“Tried that,” Steve says, breaking out one more, big sigh. He puts on his best Irish brogue, mimicking FRIDAY. “I’m sorry, Mr Stark is in meetings and can’t be disturbed at this time.”

“He’s working damage control,” Natasha suggests. “The press is all over us, the politicians want answers. Add in the Wakandans...”

Steve holds up his hand to stop her. “Yeah, I get it. We fouled this up.”

A slightly warmer smirk graces Natasha’s lips. “I think your first assessment was more on point,” she says. The smile fades. “You made a mistake.”

Steve clenches his jaw. “I know, but I don’t need you - or Tony - making excuses for me.”

“You misunderstand,” Natasha says, taking a few steps further into the room. “I’m not excusing you. I’m just stating a fact.”

“You didn’t come up here to cheer me up, then,” Steve replies with a sniff.

“Nope. I came up here to tell you it’s time for dinner.”

“I’ll get something later.”

“No...” Widow says. She’s now just on the other side of the desk, close enough that her reflection appears opposing his. “You’re misunderstanding again. Dinner is ready. I have made dinner. I do _not_ make dinner lightly. You are coming down for dinner. Now.”

Steve recognises that tone of voice. He gets to his feet. “Yes ma’am,” he says and follows her down to the rec room.

****

They eat mostly in silence, but at least they’re all together to do it. Natasha stabs at her pasta dangerously and eyes them all over the table.

“How is it?” she asks.

“It is... very good,” Wanda says, offering a polite smile.

“Yeah, Natasha,” Rhodes agrees, “you... uh... make the sauce yourself?”

Vision spears a farfale coated in rich red sauce. “As you know, I am unable to eat. But I have analysed the components of the prepared meal and found an uncharacteristically high level of diallyl disulfide.”

“See,” Sam offers with a grin. “Even Vision liked it.”

Natasha grunts. “He’s saying I put too much garlic in the sauce.”

“Tastes pretty good to me,” Sam replies with a shrug, shovelling another forkful into his mouth.

Rhodes clears his throat, casting about for a diversion. His eyes alight on Steve. “You’re quiet, Cap,” he says.

Great.

“Just enjoying the food,” Steve replies. To be honest, the sauce _does_ have a bit too much garlic for his tastes, but he’s neither brave nor stupid enough to say that out loud.

They descend back into silence. Steve fills his glass with water; tops Wanda’s up as well. Sam swaps Vision’s still-full plate with his own empty one.

Without warning, Rhodey drops his fork onto his dish with a startling clatter. “Okay,” he says. “Are we gonna talk about this?”

Natasha puts her own utensils down in a precise motion. “I get it. My cooking sucks. Don’t give up the day job,” she says.

Steve dabs his mouth with a napkin, then drops it onto his (mostly empty) plate. “He means Lagos.” Even at the mere mention of the word, he sees Wanda flinch.

“Well, I think we have to recognise that things went south,” Rhodes replies.

Sam snorts. “What do you know? You weren’t even there.”

“Oh, and that’s my fault I suppose?” Rhodey snaps back.

“You saying that it’s mine?” sneers Sam.

“Well, I’m not the one who wasn’t watching where he was flying.”

“There’s this little thing we used to talk about in the Air Force, called situational awareness. Maybe you’ve heard of it, _Colonel_?”

“Oh, you want to go _there_ , Airman?” Rhodey replies. “138 combat missions I flew Wilson, and I never lost a...”

Steve surges to his feet. “Stand down, Rhodes,” he barks.

At his harsh tone, Wanda pushes away from the table. “I’m sorry,” she says. “I have to...” she leaves the room in a rush. Nat nods at Vision and he leaves his seat and silently sweeps off down the corridor behind her.

Steve grits his teeth. “Right, let’s get this over with. Rhodes, you were injured. That’s no one’s fault, but it also means you weren’t on the ground. Sam, Rhodes is right to question what happened. That’s something I’ve been doing myself.”

“And what’s your take?” Sam asks. Steve envies how calm his voice is.

“...That I’m a person as well as an Avenger,” Steve replies. “That I can get distracted. That I can make a mistake. I might have forgotten it, but Rumlow didn’t and he used it against me. Now we all have to deal with the fallout.”

“You mean, Tony has to,” Rhodes grumbled.

Steve begins to snap a reply, bites his lip and tries again. “I know he’s your friend, Rhodey. And I know you worry about him. But Tony’s doing the job he gave himself when he decided to hang up his boots.”

“You like to think you know him so damn well, don’t you?” Rhodey sneers. He’s on his feet now, leaning on the table to face Steve down. From the corner of his eye, Steve notices Natasha pour herself some wine.

“I’d like to think he and I knew each other pretty well,” Steve says, trying his best to keep his voice level.

“Because you fuck?”

Natasha appears to decide that it’s time to intercede. “Rhodes,” she says softly.

Rhodes throws his napkin onto his plate. “I’m out,” he says, marching off in the direction of his suite. 

A few seconds after he leaves, Nat nudges Sam.

“Oh, me?” Sam grumbles, but gets up regardless. “Thank you for dinner, Natasha,” he says formally before he leaves, “it was delicious.”

Natasha allows a few more moments to pass; moments in which Steve begins to feel really quite silly for towering over an almost empty dinner table, but remaining too embarrassed to sit himself back down. If Natasha feels any discomfort, however, she doesn’t show it in her body or face. Lifting the wine glass once more to her lips, she takes a sip, then replaces the glass on the table.

“Well, I think that went fairly well,” she says dryly.

Steve clears his throat, forcing himself to meet her eyes. “If that’s your ‘fairly well’, I would _hate_ to see your disaster.”

“Hey, last time I cooked, three people died,” she replies with a shrug.

Steve doesn’t respond. She could be joking, but with her former line of work in mind, she equally might not.

“It needed to be done,” Natasha says at last.

Steve blinks at her. “You _planned_ that?”

“What, did you think something like this would just go away if you left it?”

“There’s a way to talk to people, Romanoff.”

“Yes, there is,” she agreed. “And that’s precisely what none of you were doing. So we did it my way.”

Her words knock the last of the fight out of him. He flops heavily into the chair behind him. “Your way is kinda like a punch to the face.”

“Effective?” she suggests.

A memory of Peggy laying out Hodge with a single right hook passes briefly through his mind. It forces a crooked smile onto his face. “I guess.”

“Good. Now, my advice is to go get some sleep, let everyone cool for the night, and then in the morning I want you to talk to Wanda.”

“Wanda? Not Rhodes?”

Natasha shakes her head. “She took the biggest hit in Lagos. She’s not blaming you, or the team, or the bad guys. She’s blaming herself. You’ve got to nip that in the bud.”

“Wouldn’t it be better coming from you?” Steve feels a coward the moment he says it. All his life he’s lived by the adage of don’t ask others to do what you won’t do yourself. But the thing is, he’s _still_ just not that good at talking to girls. _Women_. With the exceptions of Peg and Nat herself, he tends to say or do precisely the wrong thing. Or rather, Peg and Nat are the only women he’s ever met who’d looked on his fumbling attempts with the exactly right amount of ‘that’s enough of your bullshit, Rogers’. The last thing he wants to do is make this worse for Wanda.

“It’s gotta be you, Steve,” Natasha replies. “You’re the leader.”

“Want to swap?” he answers, the words popping out of his mouth before he thinks them over.

Nat chuckles. “Maybe one day. Until then...” She shrugs.

Steve sighs, getting up again. “Thanks for this, Natasha. Sort of, at least.”

She lets him get a few paces towards the door and then calls to him. “Where do you think you’re going?”

He stops and turns. “To my suite, like you suggested.”

“And who do you think’s going to clean all this up?” she replies, gesturing at the used tableware in front of her.

Steve very, very briefly considers saying ‘the staff’. Even more briefly, he considers saying ‘the dishwasher’. He sighs. “Me?”

Natasha nods. “Well, I cooked it. And you upset everyone else. I think it’s only fair.”

Again, Steve takes a very deep breath and for the second time that night answers: “Yes, ma’am.”

****

Natasha helps dry the plates in the end. Then with a squeeze of his shoulder and the lightest kiss to his cheek, she bids him goodnight. With nothing left to do, and her admonishment overlapping with Peggy’s in his mind, he heads back up to the suite. 

He’s part way there when he realises he left his phone in Tony’s office. He doubles back on himself, a path which takes him past Wanda’s closed door. For a few seconds he hesitates, wondering if he should knock and get it over with. Then his ears attune to the faint sounds of conversation coming from within. They’re too quiet for him to be sure who it is, but he’d not be afraid to hazard a guess. Either way, he carries on down the hall. The lights to Tony’s office come on automatically as he steps inside, and Steve quickly locates his missing device. 

Flicking the screen on, he is confronted with more than half a dozen notifications.

Call. Tony. No message.  
Call. Tony. No message.  
Call. Tony. No message.

At last,

Text message. Tony.

_I’m coming back to the compound tomorrow. Wanted to give you a heads up, but can’t say in a message. Don’t call. I’m about to go into the last session, could be a late one. T._

It’s ridiculous. He can run twenty laps of the compound without breaking a sweat and a single message has his heart pounding. He checks for the time stamp. Maybe if he has _just_ missed the call, it isn’t too late to... but no. The final index is nearly forty five minutes ago.

Dammit.

He tucks the device into his back pocket and makes his way back to his and Tony’s quarters. Passing Wanda’s suite again, he bumps into Vision on his way out. Steve decides he owes himself a dollar.

“Good evening, Captain,” the synthezoid says.

Steve nods. “Vision. Everything okay?”

“It will be.” The calm assurance of Visions voice is almost enough to make Steve believe him.

Steve shuffles, as Vision continues to float serenely just in front of him. “Well, umm... goodnight,” he says.

Unexpectedly, Vision catches his arm. “Captain Rogers?” he asks.

“Yes, Vis?”

“Regarding Lagos. I can’t help but feel that if I had been in attendance, perhaps things would have proceeded differently.”

And that’s another one of his teammates blaming themselves.

“I made the decision for you to sit Lagos out. None of us could have imagined the lengths Rumlow would go to to get his revenge on us. On me,” he corrects. “It isn’t your fault.”

A thoughtful frown pulls together Vision’s brow, the skin around the gem on his forehead wrinkling slightly. “No. Perhaps not,” he says. “Goodnight.”

He leaves Steve standing in the hall, filled with a sense of confusion that refuses to abate even after Steve gets back to his suite.

Mine and _Tony’s_ suite, he corrects.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on [tumblr](https://opposablethumbs-on-aO3.tumblr.com/)!


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Divided, we fall.
> 
> (Also, I may have mentioned it before, but Ross is a goddam asshole.)

“I appreciate you walking me to my car and all, Ross” Tony drawls as the two of them (three, counting Chuckles) all come to a stop in front of Tony’s newest coupe, “but don’t you have better places to be than a parking garage?”

“Oh yes,” Ross agrees, walking round to the passenger side of the vehicle and opening the door. “But you’re driving me.”

“The only place I’m going is back to the compound,” Tony replies. 

A thin smile crooks up under Ross’s moustache. “And we’re coming with you.”

Tony snorts. “I don’t think so.”

“I wasn’t asking,” Ross replies, ducking into the car.

Tony turns on Chuckles. “It’s going to be pretty cramped in the back, big guy,” he says.

Chuckles does something he’s never done before. He smiles. “That’s why I’ll be following behind in the jeep.” He turns and bips the lock on a roomy-looking SUV, its lights flashing in what Tony chooses to interpret as a smug fashion. “Enjoy the drive, Mr. Stark,” he says. “I know I will.”

Tony watches the burly agent saunter off towards his ride, and then climbs into his own car. The arc-engine hums into life as he puts his hands on the wheel, and he discretely nudges the ‘privacy’ button on the control stem to tell FRIDAY to keep schtum. “You know,” he says as Ross turns towards him, “I think Chuckles is growing on me.”

“Does that mean you’re going to start calling him Ian?” says Ross.

“Let’s not go crazy,” Tony replies. He slips the car from automatic to manual, dropping it into gear and pulling away with an _entirely_ necessary amount of wheel spin. “Buckle up,” he reminds as Ross is forced back into his seat.

“You know, I don’t need you there,” Tony says as they clear the garage. He checks his rear view mirror and sees the black SUV following close behind.

“Not quite right,” Ross corrects. “You don’t _want_ me there. But you will need me.”

“I _need_ the team to see that there’s no better choice than this. I can do that better without you breathing down their necks.”

“Tony, Tony, Tony,” Ross chides. “You make it sound like this is a stern chat from mom and dad for some naughty kids. One hundred and twenty seven countries want to see you and your associates taken in hand. And that’s just the early adopters. Hell, there was so much clamour for copies of the Accords, we were having to get the office staff to Xerox them.”

“You think I don’t get that?” Tony snaps, putting his foot down as they turn onto US50. “But it needs to be done right. Steve and the rest will have concerns. Hell, I have concerns. But if I’m going to convince them to accept oversight again after what happened with SHIELD...” He cuts himself off, forcing his hands to loosen their death-grip on the steering wheel.

“I’m impressed with how committed you are to this, Stark,” Ross says.

Tony shrugs slightly. “I have my reasons.”

Ross nods knowingly. “Ah, so Mrs. Spencer finally caught up with you.”

“You...” Tony moderates his voice. “You _knew_ about her?”

“Oh yes. Mrs. Spencer has been an outspoken opponent to the unrestricted activity of the Avengers since her son died in Sokovia.”

“Who just happened to run into me at an event that wasn’t on my public calendar, on one of the most secure campuses in the country?”

Ross smiles slyly. “One of life’s little mysteries,” he assures. “Still, she has some interesting points.”

Nausea surges in Tony’s stomach and he tastes acid at the back of his throat. “She’s grieving. She’s _angry_.”

“And she has every right to be,” Ross replies. “Those of us who’ve lost people are allowed our anger. My wife... I was angry at what took her, and I was angry at her for leaving Betty and me behind.” A flutter of emotion, almost imperceptible, sounds in Ross’s voice. “And you...” he says. “Having both your parents gone at such a young age. Are you telling me you never looked for anyone to blame? Something to make _sense_ of what happened?”

The road in front of Tony blurs dangerously, and he blinks to clear it. “You really think this is the best time to discuss my parents?” he says.

“And what if it wasn’t an accident,” Ross snaps back. “What if you found out that someone was responsible? Even if they didn’t mean for your parents to die, wouldn’t you want them to pay for what happened, to have them held to account? Could _you_ forgive them?”

Tony grits his teeth to keep himself from saying anything stupid. He reaches out and flicks on the car’s music system, the last track resuming from where it left off. A blast of refrain guitar solo pumps through the car speakers. Without commenting, Ross leans forwards and turns the stereo off again.

“You’re not a bad guy, Tony,” he says. “And you’re trying to protect them from becoming the bad guys.”

It’s going to be one hell of a long road trip.

****

While they wait for Chuckles to make it to the compound (seriously, you’d think they’d give agents advanced driver’s training), Tony takes a last few minutes to prepare himself for what’s to come. He leaves Ross to stretch his legs on the grass verge and summons DUM-E out from the garage. The robot appears clutching a pad in its three-pronged grip, DUM-R buzzing in and out of its path excitedly.

“Thanks, Big D,” Tony says as he takes the pad from his helper. Within seconds, he’s flicking through the news reports and social media reaction to Lagos. It would seem that things have gone from bad to worse in the time it’s taken to drive up from DC. Apparently, a delegation of Wakandan scientists _just happened_ to be in the exact building that got taken out in the blast. Because of course they were. The first envoy out of the country in more than fifty years: why wouldn’t they be in exactly the worst possible place? Tony taps at a few on-screen buttons, turning his satcom network towards the isolationist nation. He initialises a full-spectrum scan of all transmissions coming from within its borders. Maybe if he can see how the local media is responding to the tragedy, he can gauge an appropriate response. Or at least figure out if they’re about to launch an all-out assault on the Eastern seaboard.

But there’s... nothing. No chatter; no state radio; not even anyone pirating porn.

Tony frowns and makes a few adjustments to the network, switching from passive scan to active visual. Zooming in, he can see tan areas of plains melt into verdant green jungle and then... 

...Again with the nothing. All input goes blank as Tony’s screen is filled with an impenetrable grey haze. He pushes the power on the network past safety tolerances, but he can’t make it past the electromagnetic fog. His frown deepens. The only other place on the planet that defeats his bleeding-edge orbital array is a little spit of land called Latveria. And that’s a point of comparison that makes Tony more than a little nervous.

Finally, Chuckles pulls up behind them on the drive. 

“Get lost?” Tony asks sweetly as the large man disembarks.

“Stopped off at the drive-thru,” Chuckles counters, leaning back into the car and scooping up a paper cup and straw. As if to prove the point, he takes a long pull on his beverage and then tosses the empty cup into the SUV.

Yep, Tony could definitely warm to this guy.

Ross stalks up. “Now that everyone’s here,” he says, raising his eyebrow at Chuckles, “Let’s get this done.”

Tony shrugs. “Well, _we_ can certainly go inside,” he says. “But your guy here doesn’t have clearance.”

“I am a level 6 agent, sir,” Chuckles says.

“Yeah, you need to be level.... 7 to get inside,” Tony drawls. “But hey, it’s not all bad! You get to stay out here and play catch with DUM-R.”

The little robot whirrs enthusiastically, racing back towards the garage, presumably to fetch its ball.

Ross narrows his eyes, turning on Tony. “You know I can’t leave him out here. Protocol requires me to be accompanied by at least one agent.”

“Hey, my hands are tied,” Tony says with a not-terribly apologetic grin. “Not unless you want to promote him?”

Colour rises in Ross’s cheek as he sees the trap. He glowers at Tony, glances over at Chuckles and then back. “Agent 23,” he says tersely. “You are hereby promoted to level 7. Your new assignation and _grade benefits_ will follow in due course.” Gritting his teeth he adds, “Congratulations, son.”

Pretending not to notice the slightly stunned smile on Chuckles’ face, Tony taps his watch. “FRIDAY, report. Has Steve made it back yet?”

“Yesterday afternoon, sir,” she says, sounding every bit the detached electronic PA she absolutely isn’t.

“Good. Can you let him know we’re here and ask him and the others to meet Mister Secretary and me in the recc room?”

“Captain Rogers is already aware of your arrival and has assembled the remaining Avengers in conference suite 1.”

Tony purses his lips. He’d hoped to do this in less formal surroundings, somewhere he could talk _with_ the team, not at them.

“Can you tell your... whatever that is... that I have a short presentation I want to give?” Ross interrupts.

“I, uh... sure,” Tony says, guiding them inside. “Just let her know where you have it saved.”

They come to a stop in front of the elevator, and Ross reaches into his inside blazer pocket. He pulls out a CD-ROM disk. “I had my assistant put it on this,” he says. “I assume you know what to do with it?”

Tony stops himself from suggesting he invent time travel, and steps inside the elevator. “I’ve got some idea,” he grunts. As they begin to ascend, Tony glances out over the training pitch where DUM-E and DUM-R are playing catch. “FRIDAY,” he says, holding the CD up to the elevators display interface, “I need you to transfer the contents of this disc onto the internal server.”

“Sure you don’t want me put it on an 8-track?” she asks flatly. 

“The server will be fine,” Tony says, handing the disc back to Ross. “And FRIDAY? Do Ross a favour and push Chuckles’ promotion through for him? Save any paperwork getting _forgotten_ once they get back to DC.”

“Understood,” she replies.

“Thank you, Tony,” Ross says through clenched teeth.

The elevator alights on the fifth floor. Tony takes lead, not sure if he wants this over with or is just trying to make it harder on himself to run away. Ross follows behind, setting a leisurely, careless pace, and Chuckles brings up the rear. When they stop in front of the door to the conference room, Ross slips a fatherly arm around Tony’s shoulder. “I know you’re used to being the guy in control,” he says “but I think it’d be best if I lead this dance.”

Tony has to laugh, a short bitter huff of air. “That’s fine. Maybe that way maybe they’ll blame you rather than me for this situation.”

Ross stares at him, a sickly smile creeping onto his face. “I wouldn’t bet on it,” he says.

****

“You know the best thing about house guests?” Tony asks, forcing himself to sound jovial. “It’s when they go home.”

With Ross and Chuckles on their way back to DC, the team have split off into various quiet corners of the compound. They’ve agreed to reconvene in the morning once everyone has had time to process what the Accords actually entail. For Rhodey and Sam, that means holing up in the rec room with beer and computer games and more beer. Wanda and Vision are out for a walk - or a hover - around the grounds. FRIDAY’s monitors place Widow down in the gym, where she’s apparently working through Ross’s little presentation by hitting things. Not quite sure if it’s the right thing to do, Tony has followed Steve in his retreat to the suite. So far, they’ve not come within ten feet of each other; Tony standing on the far side of the lounge and Steve guarding the kitchen, arms folded and clasping his copy of the thick document to his chest.

It isn’t awkward at all.

To his credit, Steve offers a small smile in response to Tony’s wan joke. “He’s a real charmer, I’ll give you that. Reminds me of a senator I used to know.”

“Was he a self-serving, sanctimonious asshole as well?”

“He was a politician,” Steve replies.

Tony huffs out a small laugh, but feels a prickle of self-conscious heat creep up the back of his neck. He’s been dragged naked in front of the head of state of a not insignificant West African nation (long story), but somehow Steve has managed to raise the blush even that situation didn’t. Perhaps it’s because, back then, no one was pussyfooting around the situation in hand (Tony’s hands were in fact busy cupping his genitals, but that’s not the point). 

He takes a long breath, and lifts his gaze to meet Steve’s for the first time in the conversation. “Maybe we should just get this over with.”

Steve stares back, blue eyes focussed wholly on Tony’s face. “This?” he asks.

Tony sucks in his lower lip, dampening it. “I know you have questions,” he says. “Whatever you want. Just ask me”

Steve moves to join Tony in the living area, but comes to a halt on the other side of the coffee table. His throat bobs as he prepares to speak. “What I _want_?” he says, and a sigh escapes behind the words. Without warning, he tosses the ream of papers down onto the table, drawing a generous thud from the wood. “What I want is to go to bed and not worry about the fate of the world for one night.” 

Tony blinks, caught off guard. It simply isn’t the kind of thing that Steve, aka Captain Responsible, says. He’s more your ‘shake it off and get the job done’ kind of guy. It’s just one of those impossible standards that Steve seems to embody. But there’s something not only in what he says, but how he says it: a bitterness in his tone that teeters towards selfishness. And while that’s not a word Tony ever expected to associate with Steve, it’s the only one that fits.

Steve must read Tony’s silence as criticism, because his lips draw into a thin line. “I’m _tired_ , Tony. I haven’t slept in... I actually can’t remember. I just need to get some rest so I can deal with ‘this’ with a clear head.” He licks his lips. “Is that really too much to ask?” 

Coming from anyone else, that might be a rhetorical question. But Tony knows Steve expects an answer. “No,” he says. “It’s not too much to ask at all.” 

Turning away, Tony heads for the door. Only when something snags at his sleeve does he look back. It’s Steve, who’s crossed the space between them in an almost impossibly small span of seconds. 

“Where are you going?” Steve asks. His voice is firm, but his eyes betray his confusion.

Tony shrugs. “You want to sleep. I’m going to my room.”

“This _is_ your room,” Steve says quietly.

Driven by hope stronger than caution, Tony takes a step closer to him. How long is it since they were last like this: alone, and together? A week? More like ten days. And he’s missed it. He’s missed it _so_ much.

“You’re sure?” he hears himself saying. Steve nods, but Tony can’t bring himself to respond. He lets Steve make the first move: not because he wants to make the other man do all the work, but because he still doesn’t trust himself to have read the situation correctly. But as Steve’s hands come to rest on his waist, fingers fluttering between hesitant touches and a bolder grip, Tony knows what it is the larger man is looking for. Slowly, still uncertain, he wraps Steve in an embrace. After a few seconds, he feels the familiar weight of Steve’s body as it relaxes against him, and the bump of Steve’s chin as it drops to his shoulder.

Tony holds him there, sensing when it becomes okay to speak again; when the last of Steve’s armour has been cast away. He pulls back so he can look up into Steve’s eyes. “So, we’re not fighting now?” he asks, edging it with enough mischief to keep the words from biting.

“Not tonight,” Steve replies, and tugs Tony towards the bedroom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Need to chastise me for messing with your feelings? My [tumblr](https://opposablethumbs-on-aO3.tumblr.com/) is always willing.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tony follows the threads to the future, Steve remembers the mistakes of the past. Together, they have a chance of avoiding disaster. Apart? It's going to end in a fight.

When Steve wakes, he's alone. And somehow, he'd known that’s exactly what he would be. He turns onto his side and stares at the floor beside the bed. The messy heap of his and Tony's tangled clothes has gone, but he spots his shirt and pants flopped over the dresser. He sighs and rolls out of bed, claiming his tee on the way.

It doesn’t take him long to locate Tony, however: he’s sitting on the sofa in their living quarters. He’s wearing the same suit as the night before - plus a few extra wrinkles - and those memory glasses he came up with sit on the end of his nose. An eerie blue image stretches into the air above the coffee table, projected from Tony’s personal pad. Steve recognises what it is at once: a hologramatic representation of Sokovia, the airborne centre of the town hanging menacingly over the scarred landscape beneath. From their relative positions, it looks to be seconds before Tony and Thor sent the two crashing back together.

Why Tony would need his invention to recall that particular event is beyond Steve. It’s not something he’s ever likely to forget. With very little effort, he can still hear the strain in Tony's voice as the filtration system on his suit began to fail; still feel the utter helplessness as he watched the city fracture and fall away. Everything that came before and all that came after: it exists in his mind with enough clarity not to need a reminder.

“What are you doing?” he asks, after watching Tony's fingers trailing through the spectral town for a few moments more. 

Tony jumps in his seat, but tries to cover it. “Plotting vectors,” he says, tucking his chin to his chest.

Steve walks over to him, positioning himself directly behind Tony to see exactly what the other man is seeing. Almost without thought, he puts his hand to Tony's shoulder and uses his index finger to stroke at the ends of his hair where they rest against his neck. The faintest hint of a smile passes over Tony's lips, but fades as Steve asks, “why?”

Tony sits forward, breaking the contact. “We lost too many people that day,” he says. “One of them was called Charlie Spencer. I'm identifying exactly which piece of falling rock killed him. See...” Tony's fingers dart into the projected image again. “I traced Charlie's cell phone location right up until the moment it stopped broadcasting. He was... here.”

He points at a set of pre-fab houses clustered just outside the crater formed when Ultron ripped the town into the sky.

“This was the humanitarian project he was working at,” Tony remarks. “They'd nearly finished the initial batch of houses.” A slight tremor runs through him, as though he's shaking himself free of the thought. “Anyway,” he says, “I know from Fury's visual records of the rescue op that it was part of the town hall that landed on him. I just can't decide...” He pulls the image in, zooming to what Steve presumes is the intact town hall. With a wave, Tony disregards all the other surrounding buildings, leaving just an ethereal 3D representation of this one structure behind. “...whether it was a piece of foundation, or something from the roof.” Lines appear in the building, fracture points, some marked red, the others yellow.

Steve licks his lips. “I don’t understand,” he says quietly. 

Tony turns in his seat, his eyebrows knitted into a confused line. It’s as though Steve just asked him the answer to 2+2. Comprehension dawns barely a heartbeat before Tony’s answer arrives. 

“Because I want to know whether I killed him, or Thor did.” 

Steve can’t decide if he wants to shake some sense into Tony or to hold him tight and not let go. In the end, he can’t trust himself to do either and clasps his hands behind his back. “Neither of you 'killed' him, Tony,” He says. “He died. Other people died. More walked away because _we_ did our job.”

Tony snorts. “You tell that to his mother.”

The words land like a punch, weighted with such bitterness that Steve takes a step back. But even as he does, he realises that he isn’t the target. The full force of that resentment is directed inwards, towards Tony himself. He thinks this boy's blood is on his hands. And Steve gets it. The first time he took the life of an enemy combatant, he didn't sleep for days. Losing one of the men under his command was harder, and the death of a friend harder still. But in the end, he knew it was the cost of fighting in a war. Seeing civilians made the targets however - knowing they were being used in a cowardly strategy to generate fear - was something Steve could never stomach. The Russian Front. Sokovia. They both haunt him. But less so than doing nothing and letting someone else bear those regrets.

“What you did was necessary,” Steve assures. 

“Because _I_ decided it was necessary,” Tony replies, voice tight with control. “I called it on shattering the spire. A few seconds more; an extra meter of height; a few extra degrees of the Earth's rotation, and maybe Charlie would be getting laid right now, not laid to rest.”

Steve takes a deep breath. “I understand guilt, Tony,” he says softly. “I know what it’s like to blame yourself for a death; to feel responsible for something beyond your control.”

Leaning forward further still, Tony scoops up the Accord document from where Steve tossed it the night before. He pulls it onto his knee, placing his palm against the cover. “That's what this does. It protects us, protects _you_ from fights you can’t win and from having to defend your decisions when things go wrong. It stops them punishing us for not saving everyone.”

“You make it sound like people see the Avengers as criminals...”

“By some arguments, we could be,” Tony replies flatly. “Mrs. Spencer certainly sees it that way.” With his free hand he reaches back, links his fingers with Steve's. “Please, just consider it.”

“I'll read it,” Steve says. “Soon as I'm showered, and you’ve fixed us coffee.”

Tony smiles; and it's a genuine, beautiful smile of the kind he only ever offers in private. 

Rather than making Steve feel better, it forces a knot in his stomach. He knows - _knows_ \- that Tony has already decided this is the only way. Like so many times in the past, he's found what he sees as a solution and is blinding himself to any repercussions. It's the kind of single mindedness that makes him a great inventor. But it’s also the drive that makes him ask ‘could I?’ and not ‘should I?’.

It’s exactly what made Tony try to save the world, yet nearly destroy it.

****

“Well, what do you think?” Tony asks as Steve places the document back on the coffee table. 

“I think I'd like to hear what the others make of it before I speak my mind.”

Tony's lips twitch. For a second he seems like he's going to accept Steve's words but then his brow furrows. “Bullshit,” he says. “You're going to oppose it.”

Steve forms his mouth into a thin smile. “You know me so well.”

Tony scowls at him. “Damn it, Steve! Don't you see why this is important?”

“I can see why it's important to _you_.” He means it to sound placatory, but it comes out more as an accusation. 

Tony's expression darkens further, eyes squinting past those blasted darkened lenses. “Do you,” he says coldly. He taps the interface on the arm of the glasses and sends the contents of his mind spiralling out of the pad once again. 

A man with glowing lashes in each hand; a shadow burned into a wall; a hospital bed containing a burly man Steve recognises but can't place; another hospital bed containing someone he can - his own battered form. Steve sees New York in flames and Sokovia in ashes and then a dizzying starfield that explodes outwards to fill the room, and then turns black and cold. He sees broken bodies strewn across a jagged and alien landscape, and field of bones laid bare beneath a tumultuous sky. He sees Wanda in chains, Vision in torn, jagged pieces and giant mechanical guards ushering others _like them_ into camps.

"Enough," he grunts.

But the images don’t stop. Those same machines roar now overhead, blotting out the spotlights in the darkening the room. The menace is palpable and Steve knows what they are doing: hunting. There, by the door, next to where Steve rests his shield, he sees Wanda again. She’s cowering beside it, covering her face as though not seeing them will help the robots not see her. It’s a futile gesture. Suddenly one of them changes direction, and then they’re all turning, converging on her.

Steve surges forward. “I said that’s enough, Stark.” He snatches the glasses from Tony's face and tosses them aside. 

Tony’s brow furrows deeply. “Hey, ow, rude,” he says.

“I’m sorry,” sneers Steve, “did I break your little toy?”

Tony massages his temple. “That ‘little toy’ cost over half a billion dollars,” he says, “but no. Actually, if you take the glasses off without severing the connection to the hippocampus, it gives you a bitch of a headache.”

“Maybe you deserved it,” Steve snaps. “What the _hell_ was that?”

Grimacing, Tony looks up into his eyes. “Things I’ve seen.”

“You’ve _seen_ Wanda chased down by robots?” Steve asks incredulously. “Wanda, who is currently sat three floors down from us?”

Tony sighs. “You’ve heard people call me a futurist, Steve, but I don’t think you know what that really means. I _see_ it. The future.” He holds up a hand as Steve starts to protest. “I don’t mean like a sideshow clairvoyant: what will happen to _you_. My brain processes patterns, behaviours, data. I see the way the world is moving, the threats that go beyond what’s right in front of us and to the problems three or four steps from now. To me, the possibility of that world is as real as what’s already happened. I’m trying to stop it Steve, don’t you understand that?”

Before Steve can reply, the intercom buzzes, and it’s Natasha on the line. “Are you two ready to join the collective?” she asks. “We’ve got a lot of... opinions down here.”

“Up here too,” Tony shoots back and Steve glowers at him. In the background of the intercom, Steve hears Rhodey scoff, ‘you would say that,’ and then something inaudible get hurled back in Sam’s muffled voice.

“We’ll be right down,” Steve says.

****

He’d known it was coming. He’d even thought he was coming to terms with it. But seeing those words made it real and he couldn’t…

_She’s gone._

He just couldn’t.

No matter how he integrates into this world, he is still a product of his time. He didn’t cry at his mother’s funeral; only Bucky saw those tears, holding him silently as he sobbed into the dark night. And then when Bucky fell, Peggy was there with her bright smile and brave words and her hand covering his.

He hears the door to the stairwell sigh on its hinges and well-heeled shoes fall on the tiles. He doesn’t have to look up to know who it is, he recognises the minutia of familiarity, the inexplicable and unmistakable energy that accompanies Tony wherever he goes.

“Things got hot,” Tony says quietly, coming to rest a few steps up from him.

Steve shakes his head, still staring at his boots. “Not that,” he says.

Tony dismounts another step. “Then what?”

“A... friend just passed.”

Tony takes a breath. “Peggy.”

Surprise jerks Steve’s head up and he immediately damns himself - there’ll be no hiding the pink in his eyes or the salt streaks on his cheeks from Tony’s penetrating gaze.

“I met her, you know,” Tony continues. “Dad kept his work away from me and mom, but one time she turned up at the mansion. Boy was she pissed about something. Dad hardly got her into his study before she started calling him an arrogant bastard.” A small smile tugs at Tony’s cheeks. “I liked her.”

Steve feels an echo of that smile on his own lips. “Yeah, she could have a real temper on her. Took at shot at me once.”

“She tried to hit you?” 

“Not quite. She fired her Walther at me.”

Tony snorts. “What the hell did you do?” 

A little blush creeps into Steve’s cheeks. “I kissed a girl.”

Tony considers Steve with an absolutely serious expression on his face. Slowly, he nods. “Okay. Fair.”

He’s not sure how it happens, whether he moves or if Tony does, but Steve finds himself pressed against Tony’s chest. He feels the warmth radiating through the other man’s vaguely crumpled shirt and the slight irregularity of the skin over his heart. The height differential takes Steve back to those days before the serum, to when he wasn’t always the last man standing in a fight.

“Steve, I know this is hard,” Tony says at last. “But we need you back in there. The team’s split, they need us to keep them together.”

Steve pulls back, tips his chin up to stare into Tony’s eyes. “Are we?” he asks. “Together?”

Tony sighs, arms dropping to his sides. “I guess that’s up to you.”

“I…” Steve wets his lips. “I don’t think so.”

A look of unavoidable conclusion crosses Tony’s face, his expression - his whole demeanour - changing. He goes from this man Steve has come to respect, to care for in ways he would never have expected, to Tony Stark. The Tony Stark he gives to the rest of the world. “Fine,” he says, as flatly as if Steve just told him there was no milk for his coffee. “But if this is about Peggy, remember that SHIELD was her life, and SHIELD made us. I don’t think the best way to honour her is to throw away everything she worked to create.”

Steve’s whole body goes cold, as cold as the water that dragged him under so long ago. “That’s low Stark,” he growls. “Even for you.”

“Even for _me_ ,” Tony echoes hollowly. He turns on the step, and moves calmly up the stairs, opening the door and allowing it to close softly behind him.

Steve waits a few seconds and then punches the wall. The concrete cracks from the point of impact, leaving a perfect impression of futility behind as Steve retracts his hand.

****

_A flight._

_A dark grey suit._

_Lifting the casket and it feeling almost impossibly light, too easy; as though his strength robbed him of the burden of grief that is by rights **his.**_

It all flits by as though the world is made from a grey haze, the details blurring at the edges. The first thing that had come into focus had been Sharon - Sharon, Peggy’s _niece_ \- standing in the pulpit. He’d never heard Peggy say the words Sharon quoted, but in that instant he could - the same soft, yet firm delivery that Peggy would have used, that absolute certainty behind them. It was as though Peggy had stepped from beyond the veil to tell Steve what to do one last time.

Natasha half-smiles up at him. “There’s still room on the jet,” she says.

It would be so easy to agree, to join her in the jet. To fly to Vienna and stand in that room in front of the representatives of all those countries - 144 at last count - and agree to be a good boy and do as he’s told. After all, four weeks paid holiday a year sounds pretty good. And never having to face a grieving parent without being able to say ‘I was just doing my job’ might help some people sleep at night. But Steve can’t get past feeling that it’s wrong. Perhaps precisely _because_ it’s easy, that it _is_ an excuse.

“You know I can’t,” he says with a sigh.

“I know,” she agrees, ducking her head slightly.

“So why are you here?”

“I didn’t want you to be alone.”

But even as her arms come up around him, Steve knows that is exactly what he is. When he came out of the ice, he thought he had nothing. Then he found purpose with SHIELD, family with the Avengers, made new friends in Sam and Nat, reclaimed old ones in Peg and Buck, and discovered something wonderful in Tony. 

But despite all that, there was always a sense of fragility about this second chance at life; something precarious that just waited for one of the struts to fail and undermine the rest. When SHIELD fell, he wobbled but stayed standing. The truth was, it just wasn’t that important to him. People. People are what matter. And in a short space, he’s lost Peggy, Tony... even Bucky having gone silent feels inevitable.

“Go,” he whispers in Nat’s ear. “Do what you need to do.”

She pulls back, her hands clasping his biceps. “When I see him, is there anything you want me to tell him?” she asks.

Without meaning to, Steve pictures Tony as he was the last time they were together: standing in that stairwell. The way he held himself; the look of aloof indifference on his face. 

Steve sighs. “There’s nothing left to say.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter broke my heart to write. If you feel like yelling at me for what just happened, come visit my [tumblr](https://opposablethumbs-on-aO3.tumblr.com/).


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's the second to last chapter! Tony and Steve have broken up, Civil War has started, and Bucky has a pressing need for fruit.
> 
> I'm not ready, and I wrote it.

Bucky likes Bucharest. There he said it.

Knowing the language helps, and no one but Helena seems to have picked up on the slight trace of an American accent behind his words. He has a job, and while he knows Costel is paying him well below the going rate, working long hours is hardly a chore for a super-soldier. A few of the other laborers grumble at his tirelessness, saying that he’s giving them a bad name, but most stick to making good-natured if lewd suggestions about his stamina. And Buck’s always careful not to push his luck too far, anyway. He doesn’t need to be rich, just earn enough to get by. 

The apartment, _his_ apartment, might be a touch spartan, but it’s enough for his needs. He’s scavenged a little more furniture over the weeks he’s been there. Helena even made him some cupboard skirts from an old dress of hers. He thinks of it as home.

 **’What are you doing tonight, eh Iacob?’** one of his coworkers might ask.

 **I’m going home,** he would reply.

Even sleep’s coming a little easier, so long as he stays upright. And he no longer needs to feel the cold press of gunmetal for his hands not to shake. All in all, things are going pretty well for an ex-assassin turned fugitive from the entire world.

He chuckles sorely to himself, not loud enough to draw any undue attention from the people around him; market-goers like himself. Truth be told, this is (without the fugitive part) pretty close to what he’d imagined for himself after the war. He’d get his discharge, pick up his job in the factory and rent an apartment big enough for one. Hell, maybe even two. Not that Stevie would’ve moved back in with him. After however long in a city full of women, he’d’ve landed a girl for sure and be settled with the makings of a nice family on the way. 

There’s a flare of jealousy, both old and fresh, in Bucky’s chest. Had he - the other ‘he’ from before the war - not wanted Steve to be happy? He’d loved him, that is something Bucky is now sure of. But fantasy aside, he knew Steve deserved the best. So why would he be jealous? And why would he still be?

It isn’t a question he is likely to answer standing about in a fruit and flower market. This isn’t one of the tourist markets, selling ten lei loaves of artisan bread and ‘traditional’ Balkan nic nacs (made in China). The fruit and vegetables are seasonal, coming straight from farms outside the city; the best of it only available first thing in the morning. He glances at a few stalls: rhubarb dominates, as it has for the last few weeks, but in with it are long, thin carrots, still with their roots matted with soil, and even some bright green zucchini. And plums. They catch his eye from a distance, a single basket of the dark-skinned fruit nestled in among the ruddy stalks. A little small, unsurprising for the time of year, but his mouth waters at the thought. They had always been his favourite. It’s a fact he didn’t know he needed to know until it hits him in that moment. Baked, stewed or poached straight from the tree in the old rectory garden. _Bucky loved plums _.__

__Bucky’s feet are already moving towards the stall. He nods to the seller; greets him. The chalkboard next to the basket tells Bucky that the plums are eight lei a kilo. It’s more than he ought to spend on a non-essential, but the fragrance of them tickles his nose with the promise of honey-sweetness and innocent times. He selects just a couple, soft to the touch and ready to eat. He can come back later in the year for more, when the price is more reasonable. Maybe even stretch to enough to bake a pie for him and Helena to share._ _

__But for now, he pays the man and pockets his fruit. There’s no need to rush. It’s his day off and he has nothing more exciting planned than a stroll through the city that is now his home, maybe give the apartment a straighten and perhaps read a paper while he eats his plums. A peaceful day. Perhaps he has even earned one of those._ _

__****_ _

__This is why - this is _exactly_ why - you don’t stop running. Because no matter the things you’ve sacrificed, and everything you think you’ve left behind, standing still gives it time to catch up with you._ _

__Staring at the headlines plastered over the small kiosk, the pictures of smoke and destruction, the first thing that Bucky thinks is ‘did I do it?’ An old, sick sense of guilt surges in his stomach. It’s exactly the kind of mission they would have used him for. Is it possible that they activated him without his knowledge? His mind starts whirring, doing the math. Assuming that _somehow_ some remnant of Hydra had found him, triggered him, and extracted him to Vienna, he would have had to have gone AWOL no later than 10.00 yesterday morning. The surveillance footage has him in Vienna at 13:37 their time. The attack, according to the newspaper currently creasing under Bucky’s grip, occurred at just after 15:00 hours. He would have had to leave Vienna before then, a high alert status would have made even the most circumspect flight impossible. Even so, there is no way he could have returned to Bucharest before 18:00._ _

__Everything Bucky is tells him that he worked at the Laposdűlő site until nearly sundown, only breaking briefly to eat the sandwiches he’d brought from home. But what if he can’t trust what he remembers? Hydra had never attempted to implant false memories before, but Bucky isn’t naive enough to believe it’s because they couldn’t; only that it hadn’t been necessary. Oh they scrambled his thoughts if he started asking too many questions, but they had never tried to conceal his deeds from him. Quite the contrary; the deaths were all they left him with. To _learn_ from, and do better the next time._ _

__Cautiously, Bucky looks around. The man fleeing the booth seems to have gone largely unnoticed, but it isn’t wise to spend too long out on the street. If one person can recognise him, so can another. Bucky scoops up the newspaper, tucks it inside his jacket and tosses a few coins onto the counter. He pulls his cap down, turns his collar up, and goes looking for answers._ _

__****  
 ***Translated from Romanian**_ _

__**“Hey Iocob!”** Costel calls as Bucky walks onto the site. **“You know it’s your day off, right?”**_ _

__**“Costel,”** Bucky replies, casting a glance about the site. **“Yeah I know. I... lost my wallet. I thought maybe I left it here?”**_ _

__**“Was there money in it?”** Costel asks. **“If so, no I haven’t seen it.”**_ _

__Bucky forces a smile. **“Damn,”** he says. He licks his lips and tries to keep his tone casual. **“You remember what time I left yesterday? Maybe I can trace my steps.”**_ _

__Costel scratches his head. **“It was, what? Half past two? You seemed like you were in a rush. I figured you had a hot date, eh?”** He grabs his crotch through his jeans and gestures lewdly._ _

__Relief floods through Bucky with such force that he almost stumbles. He allows a brief grin to escape him. **“Oh yeah,”** he says. **“I took your momma out dancing, but it turns out she’s too young for me.”**_ _

__Snorting, Costel punches Bucky on his flesh arm. **“You’re alright Iacob,”** he says. **“Hey! You coming out for Vasile’s birthday on Friday? Assuming you’ve found your wallet?”**_ _

__**“I’ll try,”** Bucky says, wishing he could keep the promise. **“See you around, Costel.”**_ _

__**“Yeah, yeah,”** Costel agrees, already turning back to his work._ _

__****_ _

___I didn’t do it_ , Bucky thinks to himself. His heart is racing so fast that he’s practically running. It almost doesn’t matter that other people think he did, he knows he didn’t. He says almost, because of course he still has to bug out. There are still a few Hydra dark sites he hasn’t exploited yet, and maybe this turn of events will go a ways to quieting any suspicions the cells have that he isn’t still their asset._ _

__Back on the run. Back to sleeping with one eye open and a gun against his spine. Back to being alone._ _

__But first, he has to go home. No, to the apartment. It is no longer home and he can’t afford to think of it that way. Emotion slows reactions and sentimentality can get you killed. Hell, if anyone knows that, it’s Bucky. But there are things there he daren’t leave behind. His bag, his books, his Glock; the cash he’s managed to scrape together. He won’t get far without money and he needs the rest to keep from losing himself in what’s to come._ _

__He turns the corner off the Strada and stops dead. There are police everywhere, in the process of setting up a hasty roadblock._ _

__Bucky doesn’t believe in coincidence. They’re there for him. But it’s too soon. There’s no way they would have responded to a single sighting that fast and, even if they did, tracking him to here would be nigh on impossible. Someone else has to have called it in, someone with enough information to make it credible. But who?_ _

__None of that really matters now, all that’s important is getting away. He cuts down the alley that circles the back of the building. Sticking to the shadows, he picks his way between the dumpsters until he can see the rear door. The door is clear, the rooftops seem clear. He has to go now. If he doesn’t get his stash, he’s unlikely to get out of Bucharest, never mind cross the border._ _

__He looks left and right and then sprints for the door. It’s technically a fire escape but it’s used as an entrance more often than not. He climbs the floors, checking the halls of each one as he passes. The police don’t seem to have entered the building yet, they’re probably waiting for reinforcements. He is, after all, the fearsome Winter Soldier. If it weren’t for one guy’s unconcealed terror, Bucky would’ve been sitting on his ass eating his plums, when the whole of the SPIR descended on him. Making it to his own landing, he slides along the wall; fingers pressed to the brick. He’s sensitive enough to feel a slight vibration coming from his flat. Not police, a single pair of feet. Heavy. A guy. Who the hell is in his apartment?_ _

__He jumps as the door across from him opens, albeit quietly. Helena peers out into the hall, her eyes catching his. She beckons him closer._ _

__“You should not leave your door open, neighbour,” she says, and he’s surprised that she does so in English. “The times are not what they used to be.”_ _

__He nods. “Thanks, Helena.”_ _

__She raises an eyebrow. “There are Poliția at the front of the building, you know. I can see them from my window.”_ _

__“I know,” Bucky replies._ _

__“They are here for you.” The way she says it makes it a statement rather than a question._ _

__Again, he nods. “Did you see who went into my apartment?”_ _

__“He was very tall. In a uniform. American, also. I heard him speak.”_ _

__Bucky’s heart stops, actually stops, for a second. He catches his breath and forces himself not to cough._ _

__“You know this man?” Helena asks._ _

__“I did,” he replies. “I do.”_ _

__“I hope he can help you.”_ _

__Steve. Steve who promised not to come looking for him. Steve who would never break such a promise unless he truly believed Buck was guilty of the act in Vienna, that the Soldier was once again active and a danger to others._ _

__In a rush, Bucky pulls the contents of his pockets out and thrusts it at Helena: his door key, the newspaper and the plums. “I’m sorry, Helena,” he says. “I’m paid up until the end of the month. Please, will you..?”_ _

__“I will make things right with Mr. Antonescu,” she promises. She grasps his gloved, metal hand as he pulls away. “You must be careful, Iacob. I don’t what they think you have done, but you are a good man. This I know.”_ _

__“Bucky,” he blurts, taking back his hand. “My name is Bucky.”_ _

__“You are a good man, Bucky,” she repeats, before closing the door softly behind her._ _

__Bucky turns to his own front door and takes a deep breath, bracing himself for the fight that has to follow._ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Want to ask a question about Spaces? My [inbox](https://opposablethumbs-on-aO3.tumblr.com/) is open, including anons!


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve, no. (AKA Steve is human and if there's one thing he's learnt from Tony, it's that sometimes you have to go with what you want.)

The first thing Steve wanted to do when he saw the news reports was deny it. He doesn’t want to accept that Bucky could have fallen back under the control of Hydra, or anyone who would use him that way. The security footage; Rumlow’s words in Lagos; the missed call-ins. On their own, he might have been able to explain away each one. But together, the evidence is damning.

“Oh Buck,” he says quietly.

The worst of it is Steve could have prevented it. The tip received by Sharon’s department gave an exact address; an apartment block in the Old Town of Bucharest, Romania. Less than fifty miles from where he last checked in. As soon as he saw it, Steve knew that was where they’d find him. He damns himself silently for making Tony shelve his search. With the intel he was gathering, they could have been twelve hours ahead of Interpol instead of having to redline a quinjet just to get there first.

“LZ in five, Cap,” Sam calls back from the cockpit.

Steve grits his teeth, fingers tightening on his shield. He doesn’t know what he and Sam will find at the other end of this flight. He stands as straight as he can with the curve of the fuselage and comes up behind Sam.

“Any radio chatter?” he asks.

Sam shakes his head. “No. Think your guy is keeping us clear.”

Steve can't face correcting Sam; telling him that he and Tony aren't together anymore. But he also knows full well that if Tony wanted to take control of the jet and fly them back to the US, he could. Either he is too busy trying to calm down the international community to give a crap about one AWOL craft, or Sam’s right, he’s giving them the benefit of the doubt. “How close can you get us?” he asks.

“Sharon’s cleared us for a landing at a private pad in downtown. We’ll be three klicks out.”

“I can cover that in seven minutes,” Steve replies. “You take the rooftops and meet me there.”

If Sam wants to argue, he doesn’t. “I guess I should be grateful you don’t just want to jump out the back,” he quips.

Steve frowns, considering it.

“Uh-uh,” Sam cautions. “I’m new enough to flying this thing without you screwing up my pitch. Go strap in. Soon as we’re engines off, you can do your thing.”

Steve retakes his seat, fastening the lap belt around his waist. His legs bounce nervously as the engines kick in to a landing cycle. The idea is simple enough: put down, find Bucky, subdue him if necessary and extract him without any conflict with police or military personnel.

Okay, so it isn’t his most sophisticated strategy. But then neither was single handedly storming the Hydra base in Assano. Or crashing a plane into the Arctic ocean. Or… well, quite a lot of his plans, actually. But, just like those other times, he knows this is the right thing to do.

He hopes.

****

“Stand down, Buck,” Steve says, gently touching the other man’s arm. To every side, armed police have guns trained on them.

For a second, Steve thinks Buck is going to make a move regardless: there is something in his face that says being brought down would be preferable to being brought in. But then he glances at Steve and that changes. His jaw ripples as he clenches his teeth.

“You dumb punk,” he mutters, arms dropping to his side.

The police swarm in, manhandling Bucky to the ground and forcing his hands behind his back. 

One of the officers takes Steve’s arm, all too gently. “No,” Steve snaps, snatching his arm away. “You cuff him, you cuff me too.”

The officer looks over to his superior, indecision plain on his face.

“No,” the commander grunts. “Cameras.”

If they won’t restrain Steve, they’re having no such reservations about doing so to Bucky. There are two officers kneeling on his shoulders, a third with an AR-15 trained at the back of his head. They’re fastening multiple sets of cuffs around his wrists. Steel. Half inch. In a different situation, Steve would laugh. He’s felt Bucky punch and kick; and if he had to guess at the other man’s strength it would be comparable to his own. If Bucky wanted free, all he’d have to do is flex a little and those cuffs would be history. He’s _allowing_ them to manhandle him. Because Steve _asked_ him to.

King T’challa, the guy who had put up such a spectacular chase, is sequestered with one of the officials. He seems damnably relaxed for a guy who just took on The Winter Soldier hand-to-hand. A little further back, Steve can see Sam talking hotly with an unmasked Rhodes. The inclusion of Tony's best friend and their former teammate in their apprehension is a kick in the teeth. From the tense set of Sam’s shoulders, Steve can tell he feels the same way.

The officers haul Bucky back to his feet. There’s oil from the road smudged on his cheek and covering the front of his shirt. His hair has fallen forward, and he looks at Steve through it; his eyes dark and haunted.

“You promised,” he says, voice scratchy and underused.

Steve swallows, his throat tight. “I know,” he says. “But you’ve gotta understand why I did it.”

“I do,” Bucky says, but Steve isn’t sure if it’s a confirmation or question.

The wail of sirens in the distance grows closer. An armoured convoy rolls into view, led by a jeep and followed by several black-windowed vans and a flatbed truck. There’s a short crane welded to the back of the truck, along with some kind of object. Five feet square. A storage container, perhaps. The cavalcade comes to a halt just behind the police line, sprawling across both sides of the closed-off freeway. A man steps out of the lead car. Even without his dark business suit, his bearing would set him apart from the other personnel. But not just that. Steve recognises him as the agent that accompanied Tony and Ross to the compound.

“Captain,” he greets with a polite duck of his head. “I’m Agent 18. I’m here to take you and the others to a secure facility.”

“As prisoners?” Steve asks, keeping his voice level.

“No,” Agent 18 replies. He’s blunt, but still respectful. “You and Wilson will report for debriefing. The suspect will be held in category 1 isolation pending assessment.”

Steve sees Bucky stiffen; but he still makes no attempt to break away from his guards. Steve nods towards T’challa. “And his Highness,” he says. “Will he be joining us?”

The Agent licks his lips. “ _King_ T’challa enjoys diplomatic protection. But as soon as he put on a suit, he came under the UN’s jurisdiction. My superiors have told me to _invite_ him along, and only escalate the situation should he refuse.”

A loud bang sounds behind them, Steve’s head snapping round at it. They’re unloading the container, and Steve can see it more clearly: it’s a lumbering hunk of three inch thick glass and steel. Steve has to swallow back bile as he realises what it is. 

A _cage_.

“The X23,” the Agent says, following Steve’s gaze. “Made to hold a super-powered individual, as and when the need should arise.”

“Old SHIELD tech.” Steve says with a sneer. “Or is it a special invention of Stark’s?”

“Neither,” Agent 18 replies.

A tiny flutter of relief passes through Steve. The cage feels like a glimpse into the bleak future of Tony’s imaginings, where prisons are built to hold people like Wanda, Bucky; even Steve himself. If Tony had been party to creating that future, to _proving_ himself right, it would have been unforgivable.

The guards have Bucky in front of the cell now; one man has a hand to his head, forcing him to duck inside.

“This isn’t necessary,” Steve says. “He can travel with me.”

The Agent shakes his head. “That is non-negotiable. I’m sorry, he has to be secured for transport.” 

Steve pinches his eyes. “Then you put me in with him.”

Ignoring the request, Agent 18 motions for the cage to be lifted back onto the truck. Bucky rocks in his seat as the crane dangles him over the trailer and then lets its load drop an inch from the base. The operator jumps out of the cab and hooks up a thick power cable to a port at the rear of the cell. The whirr of magnetic locks engaging is audible even from where Steve is stood.

Agent 18 turns back to Steve. “Captain Rogers,” he says quietly. “I’ve had extensive dealings with Mr. Stark. He’s… helped me. Sort of. And he asked me to oversee the transfer personally.”

“I don’t see what that has…”

“He also sent me with a message, for your ears only.”

Steve bristles. “Yeah?” he says. “What has _Mr. Stark_ got to say for himself.”

The Agent wets his lips. “He said ‘please, Steve’.”

Somehow, the man seems to capture the sadness and fatigue of Tony’s voice all too well. It knocks the fight out of Steve. He looks over to Buck, sees the resignation in the unfamiliar lines of his friend’s face. There are dozens of police at the scene now, many of them armed. And Rhodes, still suited but for the faceplate, stands head and shoulders over them all. Steve knows that there’s half a war’s worth of munitions concealed in that tin shell. There is no real choice here, nothing to do but compromise. He sighs. 

“Okay,” he says. “Let’s get this over with.”

****

Bucky is a dead-weight draped about Steve’s shoulders. He leans against the wall of the alley, taking stock of his location. He thinks this is the place.

A hint of movement further down the passageway catches Steve’s eye. 

“Sam, are you there?” he calls.

Sam steps out from behind a dumpster. “Fancy meeting you here, Cap,” he says.

Steve gives him a withering stare, pushing back away from the wall and readjusting his hold on Bucky’s unconscious form. 

Sam saunters up to them, ducking under Bucky’s trailing flesh arm and sharing at least part of the burden. “You know, I barely met the guy, but he’s already a giant pain in my ass.”

“You’re telling me,” Steve grunts. 

“I’ll tell him too when he wakes up. He been out all this time?”

“Yeah,” Steve replies. 

Sam’s mouth draws into a straight line. “C’mon,” he says. “I’ve checked out the warehouse. It’s secure. We can keep an eye on Sleeping Beauty until he wakes up.”

Thankfully it isn’t far to the hideout Sam has selected. Steve can’t quite ignore the busted padlock and chain lying on the floor of the fire escape Sam shows them up.

“Shouldn’t lock a fire escape,” Sam says.

“That sounds familiar,” Steve replies.

Nodding as Sam slides out from under Bucky’s arm, Steve waits while Sam makes a final pass of the building. It’s almost certainly unnecessary but, in the circumstances, a little bit of paranoia is probably not misplaced. 

“Clear,” Sam says, poking his head back out into the open after a few minutes.

Steve hauls himself and Bucky inside the building. The first and overwhelming sense he gets from the place is one of disuse and mouse droppings. It’s an oddly familiar smell to a guy who grew up in a tenement block. 

Following Sam down a metal staircase and onto the warehouse floor, Steve examines the building for himself. There’s windows to all sides, but they’re boarded - just a few missing slats giving a fair view of the surroundings while providing excellent cover. The roof seems to be metal and lagged with asbestos cement or the like. That means an aerial scan will struggle to pick up their heat signatures. The main floor is open and empty, but there is a room off to one side, obscured from view.

“Over here,” Sam calls, beckoning them towards the room. Steve drags Bucky over to it. Inside, there is a single chair, a stained mattress and an industrial press, .

“Home away from home,” Sam says dryly. “one for me, one for you and another for our guy here. You can probably guess which is which.”

Steve stares at the vise. “We’re not using that thing,” he says.

“Because you really want to have to rough-house a concussed cyborg who, correct me if I’m wrong, has now tried to kill you three times?” Sam’s wide eyes dip, his gaze softening. “You don’t know who’s gonna wake up: your buddy or a killer. It’s gotta be done.”

Steve takes a deep breath, clenches his jaw. “ _I’ll_ put him in it.”

“Sure,” Sam agrees, a slight tilt to his head. “Whatever you need, man.”

****

It’s getting dark outside. Sam has been out on the streets, making calls and gathering supplies, but they all agree that it’s best to lay low for tonight. 

“I’ll take the other room,” Sam says, picking up the chair and slinging it against his back. “We shouldn’t all be in one place in case they find us.”

Steve starts to argue, but his eyes fall on Bucky. He’s silent, leaning against the wall in the far corner of the room. He’s been that way pretty much since he told them about the other Soldiers. Danger envelopes him like a cloud, and he can’t entirely blame Sam for wanting out.

“Okay,” Steve says. He meets Sam’s gaze, answers the questions he can see there as best as he can without speaking. After a moment, Sam nods and leaves the room.

Steve turns his attention back to Bucky. “I think you should take the mattress,” he says. 

Bucky doesn’t lift his head. “I’m fine,” he says.

“Buck, you have a concussion. Broken ribs.”

“I’ve had worse.”

“God dammit…” Steve begins, his voice rising above speaking volume. He forces it back down. “Dammit, Bucky. I know they’ve done things to you, but even with the serum you need time and rest to recover. I’m telling you… I’m _asking_ you… to give yourself one night.”

At last, Bucky looks up. “You know, I really liked Bucharest.”

Steve blinks. “I… I’m sorry?”

“I know what I am,” Bucky says quietly. “I know what I’ve done. But I was trying, Steve. I was trying to be different.”

“Buck…”

“You were the first thing I remembered, you know?” continues Bucky. “I was still getting used to having a name, but I could remember your laugh and the way you used to chew the end of your paintbrush.”

Steve has to press his lips together to keep from speaking. There is nothing he trusts himself to say.

“I knew that Bucharest meant giving you up. I trusted you not to track me, but your friends? I couldn’t take that chance. I told myself you’d understand. That we were each other’s history, you know?”

Steve can’t hold his tongue any longer. “I wanted to look for you,” he says. “But you told me not to. Sam and Nat kept searching, Tony too…” Guilt tightens Steve’s throat. “But I understood.”

Slowly, almost stalking, Bucky pushes himself away from the wall and steps into the light of the little paraffin stove Sam bought. Without further comment, Bucky sits himself down on the mattress. He draws his knees up to his chest and holds them there, dropping his chin to them.

“You’re not going to lie down?” Steve asks.

“No,” Bucky replies. 

“You need to rest,” Steve says, almost scolding. “Please, Buck.”

With a sigh, Bucky uncurls himself and follows instruction; lying on his side on the edge of the bed, his back to Steve. His arms are still folded about himself, and the slight bend in his knees gives his back a gentle arch that Steve follows with his eyes. Bucky had always been beautiful when he slept; such power and vulnerability held in a single, pliant form.

A blush prickles up Steve’s cheeks and he turns away, sitting himself down on the dusting ground and watching the blue-red flames of the paraffin stove dance in the draught.

****

The fire is burning low when Steve hears a slight movement coming from the mattress a few feet away. 

“Have you slept at all?” he asks, looking up from the stove.

Buck has turned over, his eyes glitter in the flickering light. “No,” he says. “You?”

Steve unwraps his arms from around his chest. “No.”

“Why?” Bucky replies simply.

Steve goes to say he isn’t tired, but that’s a lie. He considers saying that he’s watching over Bucky, and that _is_ true, but it’s not all of the truth.

“I… I’ve been finding it hard to sleep,” he admits. “I’d gotten used to being with someone. But Tony and I…” He shakes his head, not able to finish it. “Sorry, I know it must be strange for you. I never… well, things like that didn’t happen in our time.”

Bucky shrugs against the mattress. “It ain’t so strange,” he says, and there’s a wistful edge to his tone. Steve watches him frown; the play of thoughtfulness on his brow. “Come lie with me,” he says at last. “There’s room.”

Steve hesitates. There’s something, even in the creeping cold and the damp and the dust; a little bit of hope that he hates himself for having. “You’re sure?” he says.

Bucky’s eyes are grey, uncertain storms, but he nods. Cautiously, Steve moves towards him, towards the makeshift bed. He gets down first to his knees, then his hands and knees, and lastly lays himself out; stretched along the very far edge of the mattress to where Bucky is lying. The seconds pass, and Steve’s heart ticks them away in his ears.

Bucky shifts slightly, an innocuous wiggle that reads as discomfort. “I don’t sleep too great either,” he admits quietly.

Steve blinks at him slowly, tracing the lines of Bucky’s face.

“I dream,” the other man explains.

“Bad dreams?” Steve bites his tongue too late.

There’s something… strange in Bucky’s eyes. He seems a long way from this warehouse in Germany. “Mostly,” Bucky replies. A muscle twitches next to his lips; almost the start of a smile. “Not always,” he adds. He licks his lips. “Dreaming is how I remember.”

“How much do you remember?” Steve asks, and it feels like the words carry all the air in his chest with them.

Bucky does smile now, and it’s that crooked fallen angel smile Steve knows so well. “Enough,” he says. The smile fades. “But you were telling me about you and Tony.” 

“I…” Steve begins. “What did you want to know?” 

“You used the past tense.”

Steve nods.

“Why?”

Steve doesn’t have the energy left to explain everything: the bug, the betrayals of trust, the Accords. All the things that were said, and all the things that weren’t. “Enough,” he echoes.

There’s a pause, the briefest hesitation on Bucky’s behalf. “Was I part of the reason?” 

And Steve can’t lie. Not to Bucky; not when they’re lying here like it’s the thirties again, and they’re sharing each other’s fears and hopes and plans for the future. “Part of it,” Steve says softly. Even more quietly, he adds, “I missed you, Buck.”

“I missed me too, pal,” Bucky replies. And it’s such a stupidly, perfectly _Bucky_ thing to say that Steve can’t help but smile.

Bucky smiles back, something softer than his devil-may-care grin, and allows his right arm to flop out beside him. Steve recognises the gesture, but is slow to react. How can it possibly mean what he thinks it means? But as Bucky starts to pull back, embarrassed, Steve stops him. 

“Don’t,” he says.

Nudging closer, Steve rests his head into the crook of Bucky’s arm. He can barely focus on Bucky’s face, nothing more than hints of his soft lips and long lashes, and the grey-blue irises trained on him with a sniper’s intensity. Steve takes a deep breath, trying to calm to fluttering in his stomach. Bucky smells like damp clothes, and the mattress - well, it’s best not to think of what the mattress smells of. But to be this close to Bucky again, at rest, if not at peace, is more than Steve ever hoped for. In a long, slow blink, Steve pushes down the tightness in his throat.

“Tony’s important to me and I... I never told him how much. And now it’s too late.” He feels the faintest brush of Bucky’s fingers at his temple. He opens his eyes to see Bucky is still considering him quietly.

Risking once more, Steve reaches out and puts his hand to Bucky’s warm body, to the hollow just beneath his ribs. He can feel Bucky’s heart, the beat of it as quick and as strong as his own. 

“It’s like what happened with you and me. I never told you, and then it was too late.” Steve licks his lips, stomach tightening and bracing him to say what he needs to. “You gotta know that I love you, Buck.”

Bucky doesn’t stir, not even as Steve’s fingers tighten slightly in the fabric of his shirt. “I’m not worth it,” he says.

“You are to me,” Steve replies.

Bucky’s eyebrows twitch, first up and then down. “So, what’re we going to do about it?” he asks.

It takes Steve a moment to process that response: all of the possible meanings of it. “I don’t…” he begins, stops himself and licks his lips. “Nothing,” he says. “I didn’t… I didn’t tell you to make you _do_ anything.”

“Well that’s disappointing,” says Bucky.

It takes Steve even longer to recover this time. “Excuse me?” he says at last.

Bucky chuckles wryly, and the breath is warm against Steve’s cheek. “You were the first good thing that came back to me. I knew straight off you were important. And I put it together, slowly. Why when I looked at you, the memories didn’t just whisper, they shouted. He… I...loved you. And whatever else they took away, they didn’t take that. I still do.”

“Bucky,” Steve says, barely able to find his voice.

A little smirk tugs at the corner of Bucky’s cheek. “I know I’m out of practice here, but I’m pretty sure this is where we kiss.”

Steve doesn’t move; doesn’t take the unmistakable invitation that Bucky has issued. Not because he doesn’t want to, but because of how _much_ he wants to. Oh, God. It’s stupid and impossible, because this is Bucky and Buck is…

All thoughts flee Steve’s mind. Because Bucky is… kissing him.

And all Steve can do is kiss back. The press of Bucky’s body is strange. Partly because it’s not the body he had back in the way back; it’s more solid and there’s the metal arm, of course, that curls around them. But the position reminds Steve that it’s not only Bucky that has changed. Steve’s chest matches to Bucky’s, his shins taking the clash of Bucky’s boots instead of the other way around. And as Steve pulls Bucky easily over and on top of him, he can feel every inch of his friend pressing against him.

Every.

Damn.

Inch.

Bucky isn’t slow or tender, the way Steve had dreamt, he’s urgent and insistent. He nips at Steve’s lips and growls as Steve tries to slow them down; to be gentle and cautious with Bucky’s body.

“C’mon, Stevie,” he mutters against Steve’s mouth, “I ain’t gonna break.”

And he isn’t. Steve has felt how strong Bucky is, both in anger and now in need. If anything, there’s more force behind him now than when he was under Hydra’s sway, because this is _all_ him. It’s his hands on Steve’s wrists, holding them back over his head. His thighs pressing Steve into the mattress. His tongue pushing into Steve’s mouth and the burn of his stubble on Steve’s cheek. 

Steve could lose himself to this, he wouldn’t have to hold back; afraid of the burden of his strength. As much as he’d loved Tony, loved the feel of his lithe body and clever fingers, there was always that fear. If Steve didn’t focus, if he slipped, he could hurt him. He was always aware of that, even if Tony never seemed to be. But it wouldn’t have to be that way with Buck. They both know what the other is capable of, and they can both handle anything the other has to give.

Bucky pulls back, tugging the hem of Steve’s shirt out of his pants. As he does, Steve reaches up and tangles his fingers into Bucky’s hair. “It’d be so easy,” he whispers.

At his words, Bucky falters; head tipping to one side. The weight of him pressing against Steve’s hips, settling on his groin, makes it hard not to arch up against him. Both of them have reacted to the heat of this encounter, and that fact is even more evident in this new position. 

“What?” Bucky asks, scowling slightly. 

Steve wets his lips, feeling them tingle from friction. “Being with you,” he explains. “Buck, I’ve loved you all my life. Maybe before we didn’t realise it, or couldn’t do anything about it. But we can now. We’re the same. That makes it simple. Easy.”

Bucky blinks slowly as he stares back at Steve, his eyes flickering over what Steve knows must be flushed and swollen flesh. “It would be easy,” he echoes. He shakes his head. “It would be.”

Steve can feel the change in the atmosphere, from intense to sorrowful, but he doesn’t understand it. “Bucky?” he says, seeing the distance grow in the other’s eyes.

“The way I felt about you then, the way I feel about you now, it was in spite of _this_. _This_ would always have been easy, Steve.” He reaches out and strokes Steve’s cheek with his metal thumb. “We didn’t need it to be easy to love each other. We didn’t _need_ to be the same to love each other. All the other stuff made it worthwhile. That’s why I remembered you when I forgot everything else.” With a deep sigh, he clambers off Steve, but only gets so far as the edge of the mattress. He hangs his head. “I’m sorry.”

Steve rolls, gets to his knees and shuffles so he is behind Bucky. He brushes the brown tangles of hair to one side, pressing what he knows is a last kiss to Bucky’s neck. “Don’t be,” he says softly. “You’re right.” Steve sits back on his haunches and then puts a hand carefully to Bucky’s shoulder. 

Buck turns his head to look over his shoulder. “Jeez, I just passed up really great sex, didn’t I?”

Despite himself, Steve laughs loudly, and the sound reverberates throughout the still building. He presses his lips together to stifle himself and then whispers, “Yes, yes you did.”

“Oh well,” Bucky replies with a shrug. “After seven decades, who’s keeping count?”

“Not me, pal,” Steve replies, he plonks himself back on the creaky, old mattress and lies back down. “C’mon,” he says. “It’s late.”

Bucky nods, then turns and settles down beside Steve. “Yeah, it is.” He turns on to his side, but leans back slightly towards Steve. 

Taking the hint, Steve slides up behind him and wraps his arm over Bucky’s chest, curling around him. “Big spoon,” he mutters.

If Bucky hears him, he doesn’t reply. In fact, his shallow breathing has already deepened and the muscles of his back have smoothed out against Steve’s chest.

“Goodnight, Buck,” Steve whispers.

****

It’s a combination of a thin beam of light shooting through a crumbled hole in the ceiling and Sam, leaning on the door jamb; arms folded and staring, that wakes Steve up. He’s still wrapped around Bucky, but he can tell Bucky is also awake and is just lying still. Steve cranes his neck up to look Sam in the eyes.

“It’s morning,” Sam says, unnecessarily.

It’s harder to let go of Bucky than Steve would like to admit, but he does. He climbs to his feet, smoothing out the wrinkles in his clothes as he goes.

“Sleep well?” Sam adds, and there’s an undercurrent to his tone that Steve hasn’t heard since the day he and Nat turned up on the airman’s doorstep, dusty and disheveled, and asking for help.

But the fact is, he _did_ sleep well. Perhaps well enough to do the things that have to be done. “Yeah,” he replies flatly. He turns to Bucky, still on the mattress but sitting now and rubbing his eyes. “Buck?”

“Yeah,” Bucky agrees, looking up at him with clear surprise on his face.

“Then it’s time to move out,” Sam replies. “Signal went up an hour ago.”

“Why didn’t you wake us?” Bucky asks, his voice low and gritty.

Sam looks straight at Steve. “You needed it,” he replies flatly. “But we have to make that rendezvous, and we still need a ride.”

Steve nods. He catches the faintest jerk of Sam’s head, signalling him to join him in the other room. Once Sam’s back is turned to leave, Bucky snags Steve’s gaze - of course he hadn’t missed the gesture - and Steve silently indicates for Bucky to stay where he is.

Steve enters the main warehouse to find Sam standing on the far side, still with his back to him. Steve crosses the floor to stop a few feet behind him.

“You get it out of your system?” Sam asks without turning.

“Excuse me?” Steve replies.

“You and Barnes,” Sam says, facing him at last. “Tell me we didn’t do all this so you could try and get laid.”

Anger surges in Steve but he holds it in check. Because if anyone has the right to ask that question, it’s Sam.

“Bucky was targeted because of what he was, not who he is. What we did was the right thing.”

Sam nods. “So let me ask you again,” he says, balancing patience and irritation in his voice, “is it out of your system?”

Steve licks his lips, pausing to find the right words. “You’re asking me if Bucky and I made love.”

Sam laughs. “Oh no, I know exactly what did and didn’t go down last night.” He kicks at a bit of fallen concrete and the sound of it skittering swells through the warehouse. “Great acoustics out here,” he adds.

Steve feels himself blush. “If you heard everything, you don’t need to ask.”

“I heard what you _said_. I’m asking how you _feel_.”

Sometimes, Steve forgets that Sam is both a fighter and a trained therapist. He knows how to cut through the bullshit and make you reflect. Taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly - in the way Sam had taught him - Steve assembles his thoughts. “I’ve loved a handful of people in my life, each one of them in a different way. I’m good with how I feel about Bucky exactly as it is now.”

“Okay,” Sam says simply. Just in that one word, he expresses absolute belief. “One last thing though. When this shit storm is over, if you want to try and patch things up with Stark, you’re gonna need to tell him some things. This included.”

Steve doesn’t have an answer in him yet for that. There’s still too much ahead of them to think of an afterwards.

Bucky saves him from attempting a reply by sticking his head through the doorway. “You guys got _that_ out of _your_ systems?” he asks, echoing Sam’s words enough to make it clear the acoustics go both ways.

For the first time, Sam directly addresses Bucky. “Just so you know, I’m doing this for him and he’s doing this for you. I think you’re a pain in the ass.”

“Sounds like the beginning of a beautiful friendship,” Bucky retorts.

To his credit, Sam laughs before jogging up the stairs to the fire exit they entered by.

Bucky casts a look after him, faint amusement disguised by a roll of his eyes. “You two ever..?”

“Oh my God, no, Bucky,” Steve scolds.

“Hey, just seems like there’s a lot of it going around.”

“You make me sound like a real floozie.”

Bucky cracks a slight grin. “My lil’ Stevie, all grown up.”

“Shut up, jerk,” Steve says, and the words come so effortlessly it makes his chest ache.

The smile twitching Bucky’s lips fades. “So what now?” he asks.

Steve glances up to the fire escape, sees Sam gesture an all clear.

“Now, things get messy,” he says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaa! And that's where it ends! I think we all know what comes after and, to be quite honest, I'm not sure that I can make act 3 of CA:CW any more shippy than it already is.
> 
> Thank you to everyone who had read, kudosed or commented. It's meant a lot.
> 
> I'll be posting weekly updates and maybe even some snippets from Spaces 3 over on my [tumblr](https://opposablethumbs-on-aO3.tumblr.com/). Please feel free to stop by. My anons are open, and I love talking fandom. Just let me know if you don't want me to publish the reply.


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